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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2013 


http://archive.org/details/criticalmiscellaOOcarl_0 


i  CRITICAL  AND  MISCELLANEOUS 

ESSAYS : * 


COLLECTED    AXD  REPUBLISHED 


iiy 

THOMAS  CARLYLE. 

if 


IX  FOUR  VOLUMES. 
VOL.  II. 


B  0  S  T  0  N  : 
PUBLISHED  BY  BROWN  AND  TAG  OAR  I  ). 

25    AND    29  COKXHILL. 

M  DCCC  LX. 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  II. 


PAGE 

Voltaire  5 

Novalis    79 

Signs  of  the  Times  135 

Jean  Paul  Friedrich  Richter  again  162 

On  History  228 

Luther's  Psalm  241 

Schiller   245 

The  Nibelungen  Lied  296 

German  Literature  of  the  Fourteenth  and  Fif- 
teenth Centuries  355 

Taylor's  Historic  Survey  of  German  Poetry  .    .  415 

APPENDIX. 

Jean  Paul  Friedrich  Richter's  Review  of  Madame  de  Stael's 

'  Allemagne '  455 

Summary  of  Contents  483 


258251 


MISCELLANIES. 


VOLTAIRE.i 
[1829.] 

Could  ambition  always  choose  its  own  path,  and  were 
will  in  human  undertakings  synonymous  with  faculty,  all 
truly  ambitious  men  would  be  men  of  letters.  Certainly,  if 
we  examine  that  love  of  power,  which  enters  so  largely  into 
most  practical  calculations,  nay  which  our  Utilitarian  friends 
have  recognised  as  the  sole  end  and  origin,  both  motive  and 
reward,  of  all  earthly  enterprises,  animating  alike  the  philan- 
thropist, the  conqueror,  the  money-changer  and  the  mission- 
ary, we  shall  find  that  all  other  arenas  of  ambition,  compared 
with  this  rich  and  boundless  one  of  Literature,  meaning 
thereby  whatever  respects  the  promulgation  of  Thought,  are 
poor,  limited  and  ineffectual.  For  dull,  unreflective,  merely 
instinctive  as  the  ordinary  man  may  seem,  he  has  neverthe- 
less, as  a  quite  indispensable  appendage,  a  head  that  in  some 
degree  considers  and  computes  ;  a  lamp  or  rushlight  of  un- 
derstanding has  been  given  him,  which,  through  whatever 
dim,  besmoked  and  strangely  diffractive  media  it  may  shine, 
is  the  ultimate  guiding  light  of  his  whole  path  :  and  here  as 

1  Foreign  Review,  No.  6.  —  Memoires  sur  Voltaire,  et  sur  ses  Ouvrages, 
par  Longchamp  et  Wayniere,  ses  Secretaires ;  suivis  de  dicers  Evrits  inediis 
de  la  Marquise  du  Clidtelet,  du  President  Eenaidt,  cfc.  tous  relatifs  a  Voltaire. 
(Memoirs  concerning  Voltaire  and  his  Works,  by  Longchamp  and  Wag- 
niere,  his  Seci-etaries ;  with  various  unpublished  Pieces  by  the  Marquis 
du  Chatelet,  &c.  all  relating  to  Voltaire.)    2  tomes.    Paris,  1826. 


G 


MISCELLANIES. 


well  as  there,  now  as  at  all  times  in  man's  history,  Opinion 
rules  the  world. 

Curious  it  is,  moreover,  to  consider  in  this  respect,  how 
different  appearance  is  from  reality,  and  under  what  singular 
shape  and  circumstances  the  truly  most  important  man  of 
any  given  period  might  be  found.  Could  some  Asmodeus, 
by  simply  waving  his  arm,  open  asunder  the  meaning  of  the 
Present,  even  so  far  as  the  Future  will  disclose  it,  what  a 
much  more  marvellous  sight  should  we  have,  than  that  mere 
bodily  one  through  the  roofs  of  Madrid  !  For  we  know  not 
what  we  are,  any  more  than  what  we  shall  be.  It  is  a  high, 
solemn,  almost  awful  thought  for  every  individual  man,  that 
his  earthly  influence,  which  has  had  a  commencement,  will 
never  through  all  ages,  were  he  the  very  meanest  of  us,  have 
an  end !  What  is  done  is  done  ;  has  already  blended  itself 
with  the  boundless,  ever-living,  ever-working  Universe,  and 
will  also  work  there,  for  good  or  for  evil,  openly  or  secretly, 
throughout  all  time.  But  the  life  of  every  man  is  as  the 
wellspring  of  a  stream,  whose  small  beginnings  are  indeed 
plain  to  all,  but  whose  ulterior  course  and  destination,  as  it 
winds  through  the  expanses  of  infinite  years,  only  the  Om- 
niscient can  discern.  Will  it  mingle  with  neighbouring  riv- 
ulets, as  a  tributary  ;  or  receive  them  as  their  sovereign  ?  Is 
it  to  be  a  nameless  brook,  and  will  its  tiny  waters,  among 
millions  of  other  brooks  and  rills,  increase  the  current  of 
some  world-river  ?  Or  is  it  to  be  itself  a  Rhene  or  Danaw, 
whose  goings-forth  are  to  the  uttermost  lands,  its  flood  an 
everlasting  boundary-line  on  the  globe  itself,  the  bulwark 
and  highway  of  whole  kingdoms  and  continents  ?  We  know 
not ;  only  in  either  case,  we  know,  its  path  is  to  the  great 
ocean  ;  its  waters,  were  they  but  a  handful,  are  here,  and 
cannot  be  annihilated  or  permanently  held  back. 

As  little  can  we  prognosticate,  with  any  certainty,  the 
future  influences  from  the  present  aspects  of  an  individual. 
How  many  Demagogues,  Croesuses,  Conquerors  fill  their  own 
age  with  joy  or  terror,  with  a  tumult  that  promises  to  be 


VOLTAIRE. 


7 


perennial ;  and  in  the  next  age  die  away  into  insignificance 
and  oblivion  !  These  are  the  forests  of  gourds,  that  overtop 
the  infant  cedars  and  aloe-trees,  but,  like  the  Prophet's  gourd, 
wither  on  the  third  day.  What  was  it  to  the  Pharaohs  of 
Egypt,  in  that  old  era,  if  Jethro  the  Midianitish  priest  and 
grazier  accepted  the  Hebrew  outlaw  as  his  herdsman  ?  Yet 
the  Pharaohs,  with  all  their  chariots  of  war,  are  buried  deep 
in  the  wrecks  of  time ;  and  that  Moses  still  lives,  not  among 
his  own  tribe  only,  but  in  the  hearts  and  daily  business  of  all 
civilised  nations.  Or  figure  Mahomet,  in  his  youthful  years, 
■  travelling  to  the  horse-fairs  of  Syria.'  Nay,  to  take  an  in- 
finitely higher  instance  :  who  has  ever  forgotten  those  lines 
of  Tacitus  ;  inserted  as  a  small,  transitory,  altogether  trifling 
circumstance  in  the  history  of  such  a  potentate  as  Nero  ? 
To  us  it  is  the  most  earnest,  sad  and  sternly  significant  pas- 
sage that  we  know  to  exist  in  writing :  Ergo  abolendo  rumori 
Nero  subdidit  reos,  et  qucesitissimis  poznis  affecit,  quos  per 
flagitia  invisos,  vulgus  Christianos  appellabat.  Auctor 
nominis  ejus  Christus,  qui,  Tiberio  imperitante,  per  Procu- 
rator em  Pontium  Pilatum  supplicio  affectus  erat.  Repressa- 
que  in  prcesens  exitiabilis  superstitio  rursus  erumpebat,  non 
modo  per  Judteam  originem  ejus  mali,  sed  per  urbem  etiam, 
quo  cuncta  undique  atrocia  aut  pudenda  confluunt  celebran- 
turque.  '  So,  for  the  quieting  of  this  rumour,1  Nero  judi- 
'  cially  charged  with  the  crime,  and  punished  with  most 
1  studied  severities,  that  class,  hated  for  their  general  wicked- 
'  ness,  whom  the  vulgar  call  Christians.  The  originator  of 
'  that  name  was  one  Christ,  who,  in  the  reign  of  Tiberius, 
'  suffered  death  by  sentence  of  the  Procurator,  Pontius  Pi- 
'  late.  The  baneful  superstition,  thereby  repressed  for  the 
'  time,  again  broke  out,  not  only  over  Judea,  the  native  soil 
'  of  that  mischief,  but  in  the  City  also,  where  from  every 
'  side  all  atrocious  and  abominable  things  collect  and  flour- 
6  ish.'  2  Tacitus  was  the  wisest,  most  penetrating  man  of  his 
generation  ;  and  to  such  depth,  and  no  deeper,  has  he  seen 
1  Of  his  having  set  fire  to  Rome.  2  Tacit.  Annal.  xv.  44.  - 


8 


MISCELLANIES. 


into  this  transaction,  the  most  important  that  has  occurred  or 
can  occur  in  the  annals  of  mankind. 

Nor  is  it  only  to  those  primitive  ages,  when  religions  took 
their  rise,  and  a  man  of  pure  and  high  mind  appeared  not 
merely  as  a  teacher  and  philosopher,  but  as  a  priest  and 
prophet,  that  our  observation  applies.  The  same  uncertainty, 
in  estimating  present  things  and  men,  holds  more  or  less  in 
all  times  ;  for  in  all  times,  even  in  those  which  seem  most 
trivial,  and  open  to  research,  human  society  rests  on  inscru- 
tably deep  foundations ;  which  he  is  of  all  others  the  most 
mistaken,  who  fancies  he  has  explored  to  the  bottom.  Nei- 
ther is  that  sequence,  which  we  love  to  speak  of  as  '  a  chain 
of  causes,'  properly  to  be  figured  as  a  '  chain,'  or  line,  but 
rather  as  a  tissue,  or  superficies  of  innumerable  lines,  ex- 
tending in  breadth  as  well  as  in  length,  and  with  a  complex- 
ity, which  will  foil  and  utterly  bewilder  the  most  assiduous 
computation.  In  fact,  the  wisest  of  us  must,  for  by  far  the 
most  part,  judge  like  the  simplest ;  estimate  importance  by 
mere  magnitude,  and  expect  that  what  strongly  affects  our 
own  generation,  will  strongly  affect  those  that  are  to  follow. 
In  this  way  it  is  that  Conquerors  and  political  Revolutionists 
come  to  figure  as  so  mighty  in  their  influences ;  whereas  truly 
there  is  no  class  of  persons  creating  such  an  uproar  in  the 
world,  who  in  the  long-run  produce  so  very  slight  an  impres- 
sion on  its  affairs.  When  Tamerlane  had  finished  building 
his  pyramid  of  seventy  thousand  human  skulls,  and  was  seen 
'  standing  at  the  gate  of  Damascus,  glittering  in  steel,  with 
his  battle-axe  on  his  shoulder,'  till  his  fierce  hosts  filed  out 
to  new  victories  and  new  carnage,  the  pale  onlooker  might 
have  fancied  that  Nature  was  in  her  death-throes  ;  for  havoc 
and  despair  had  taken  possession  of  the  earth,  the  sun  of 
manhood  seemed  setting  in  seas  of  blood.  Yet,  it  might  be, 
on  that  very  gala-day  of  Tamerlane,  a  little  boy  was  playing 
nine-pins  on  the  streets  of  Mentz,  whose  history  was  more 
important  to  men  than  that  of  twenty  Tamerlanes.  The 
Tartar  Khan,  with  his  shaggy  demons  of  the  wilderness, 


VOLTAIRE. 


9 


1  passed  away  like  a  whirlwind,'  to  be  forgotten  forever  ;  and 
that  German  artisan  has  wrought  a  benefit,  which  is  yet  im- 
measurably expanding  itself,  and  will  continue  to  expand 
itself  through  all  countries  and  through  all  times.  What  are 
the  conquests  and  expeditions  of  the  whole  corporation  of 
captains,  from  Walter  the  Penniless  to  Napoleon  Bonaparte, 
compared  with  these  '  movable  types '  of  Johannes  Faust  ? 
Truly,  it  is  a  mortifying  thing  for  your  Conqueror  to  reflect, 
how  perishable  is  the  metal  which  he  hammers  with  such 
violence  :  how  the  kind  earth  will  soon  shroud-up  his  bloody 
footprints  ;  and  all  that  he  achieved  and  skilfully  piled  to- 
gether will  be  but  like  his  own  '  canvas  city '  of  a  camp,  — 
this  evening  loud  with  life,  to-morrow  all  struck  and  van- 
ished, '  a  few  earth-pits  and  heaps  of  straw  ! '  For  here,  as 
always,  it  continues  true,  that  the  deepest  force  is  the  stillest ; 
that,  as  in  the  Fable,  the  mild  shining  of  the  sun  shall  silent- 
ly accomplish  what  the  fierce  blustering  of  the  tempest  has 
in  vain  essayed.  Above  all,  it  is  ever  to  be  kept  in  mind, 
that  not  by  material,  but  by  moral  power,  are  men  and  their 
actions  governed.  How  noiseless  is  thought !  No  rolling  of 
drums,  no  tramp  of  squadrons,  or  immeasurable  tumult  of 
baggage-wagons,  attends  its  movements :  in  what  obscure 
and  sequestered  places  may  the  head  be  meditating,  which  is 
one  day  to  be  crowned  with  more  than  imperial  authority  ; 
for  Kings  and  Emperors  will  be  among  its  ministering  ser- 
vants ;  it  will  rule  not  over,  but  in,  all  heads,  and  with  these 
its  solitary  combinations  of  ideas,  as  with  magic  formulas, 
bend  the  world  to  its  will !  The  time  may  come,  when  Na- 
poleon himself  will  be  better  known  for  his  laws  than  for  his 
battles ;  and  the  victory  of  Waterloo  prove  less  momentous 
than  the  opening  of  the  first  Mechanics'  Institute. 

We  have  been  led  into  such  rather  trite  reflections,  by 
these  Volumes  of  Memoirs  on  Voltaire  ;  a  man  in  whose 
history  the  relative  importance  of  intellectual  and  physical 
power  is  again  curiously  evinced.    This  also  was  a  private 


10 


MISCELLANIES. 


person,  by  birtli  nowise  an  elevated  one  ;  yet  so  far  as  pres- 
ent knowledge  will  enable  us  to  judge,  it  may  be  said  that 
to  abstract  Voltaire  and  his  activity  from  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, were  to  produce  a  greater  difference  in  the  existing 
figure  of  things,  than  the  want  of  any  other  individual,  up 
to  this  day,  could  have  occasioned.  Nay,  with  the  single 
exception  of  Luther,  there  is  perhaps,  in  these  modern  ages, 
no  other  man  of  a  merely  intellectual  character,  whose  influ- 
ence and  reputation  have  become  so  entirely  European  as 
that  of  Voltaire.  Indeed,  like  the  great  German  Reformer's, 
his  doctrines  too,  almost  from  the  first,  have  affected  not  only 
the  belief  of  the  thinking  world,  silently  propagating  them- 
selves from  mind  to  mind  ;  but  in  a  high  degree  also,  the 
conduct  of  the  active  and  political  world ;  entering  as  a  dis- 
tinct element  into  some  of  the  most  fearful  civil  convulsions 
which  European  history  has  on  record. 

Doubtless,  to  his  own  contemporaries,  to  such  of  them  at 
least  as  had  any  insight  into  the  actual  state  of  men's  minds, 
Voltaire  already  appeared  as  a  noteworthy  and  decidedly  his- 
torical personage :  yet,  perhaps,  not  the  wildest  of  his  ad- 
mirers ventured  to  assign  him  such  a  magnitude  as  he  now 
figures  in,  even  with  his  adversaries  and  detractors.  He  has 
grown  in  apparent  importance,  as  we  receded  from  him,  as 
the  nature  of  his  endeavours  became  more  and  more  visible 
in  their  results.  For,  unlike  many  great  men,  but  like  all 
great  agitators,  Voltaire  everywhere  shows  himself  emphati- 
cally as  the  man  of  his  century  :  uniting  in  his  own  person 
whatever  spiritual  accomplishments  were  most  valued  by 
that  age  ;  at  the  same  time,  with  no  depth  to  discern  its 
ulterior  tendencies,  still  less  with  any  magnanimity  to  attempt 
withstanding  these,  his  greatness  and  his  littleness  alike  fitted 
him  to  produce  an  immediate  effect ;  for  he  leads  whither  the 
multitude  Avas  of  itself  dimly  minded  to  run,  and  keeps  the 
van  not  less  by  skill  in  commanding,  than  by  cunning  in 
obeying.  Besides,  now  that  we  look  on  the  matter  from 
some  distance,  the  efforts  of  a  thousand  coadjutors  and  dis- 


VOLTAIRE. 


11 


ciples,  nay  a  series  of  mighty  political  vicissitudes,  in  the  pro- 
duction of  which  these  efforts  had  but  a  subsidiary  share, 
have  all  come,  naturally  in  such  a  case,  to  appear  as  if  ex- 
clusively his  work ;  so  that  he  rises  before  us  as  the  paragon 
and  epitome  of  a  whole  spiritual  period,  now  almost  passed 
away,  yet  remarkable  in  itself,  and  more  than  ever  interest- 
ing to  us,  who  seem  to  stand,  as  it  were,  on  the  confines  of  a 
new  and  better  one. 

Nay,  had  we  forgotten  that  ours  is  the  '  Age  of  the  Press,' 
when  he  who  runs  may  not  only  read,  but  furnish  us  with 
reading  ;  and  simply  counted  the  books,  and  scattered  leaves, 
thick  as  the  autumnal  in  Vallombrosa,  that  have  been  written 
and  printed  concerning  this  man,  we  might  almost  fancy  him 
the  most  important  person,  not  of  the  eighteenth  century,  but 
of  all  the  centuries  from  Noah's  Flood  downwards.  We 
have  Lives  of  Voltaire  by  friend  and  by  foe  :  Condorcet, 
Duvernet,  Lepan,  have  each  given  us  a  whole  ;  portions, 
documents  and  all  manner  of  authentic  or  spurious  contri- 
butions have  been  supplied  by  innumerable  hands  ;  of  which 
we  mention  only  the  labours  of  his  various  Secretaries : 
Collini's,  published  some  twenty  years  ago,  and  now  these 
Two  massive  Octavos  from  Longchamp  and  Wagniere.  To 
say  nothing  of  the  Baron  de  Grimm's  Collections,  unparal- 
leled in  more  than  one  respect;  or  of  the  six-and-thirty 
volumes  of  scurrilous  eaves-dropping,  long  since  printed 
under  the  title  of  Memoires  de  Bachaumont ;  or  of  the  daily 
and  hourly  attacks  and  defences  that  appeared  separately  in 
his  lifetime,  and  all  the  judicial  pieces,  whether  in  the  style 
of  apotheosis  or  of  excommunication,  that  have  seen  the  light 
since  then  ;  a  mass  of  fugitive  writings,  the  very  diamond 
edition  of  which  might  fill  whole  libraries.  The  peculiar 
talent  of  the  French  in  all  narrative,  at  least  in  all  anecdotic, 
departments,  rendering  most  of  these  works  extremely  read- 
able, still  farther  favoured  their  circulation,  both  at  home  and 
abroad :  so  that  now,  in  most  countries,  Voltaire  has  been 
read  of  and  talked  of,  till  his  name  and  life  have  grown 


12 


MISCELLANIES. 


familiar  like  those  of  a  village  acquaintance.  In  England, 
at  least,  where  for  almost  a  century  the  study  of  foreign 
literature  has,  we  may  say,  confined  itself  to  that  of  the 
French,  with  a  slight  intermixture  from  the  elder  Italians, 
Voltaire's  writings,  and  such  writings  as  treated  of  him,  were 
little  likely  to  want  readers.  We  suppose,  there  is  no  literary 
era,  not  even  any  domestic  one,  concerning  which  English- 
men in  general  have  such  information,  at  least  have  gathered 
so  many  anecdotes  and  opinions,  as  concerning  this  of  Vol- 
taire. Nor  have  native  additions  to  the  stock  been  wanting, 
and  these  of  a  due  variety  in  purport  and  kind :  maledictions, 
expostulations  and  dreadful  death-scenes  painted  like  Span- 
ish Sanbenitos,  by  weak  well-meaning  persons  of  the  hostile 
class  ;  eulogies,  generally  of  a  gayer  sort,  by  open  or  secret 
friends :  all  this  has  been  long  and  extensively  carried  on 
among  us.  There  is  even  an  English  Life  of  Voltaire ; 1 
nay,  we  remember  to  have  seen  portions  of  his  writings  cited 
in  terrorem,  and  with  criticisms,  in  some  pamphlet,  '  by  a 
country  gentleman,'  either  on  the  Education  of  the  People, 
or  else  on  the  question  of  Preserving  the  Game. 

With  the  '  Age  of  the  Press,'  and  such  manifestations  of  it 
on  this  subject,  we  are  far  from  quarrelling.  We  have  read 
great  part  of  these  thousand-and-first  '  Memoirs  on  Voltaire,' 
by  Longchamp  and  Wagniere,  not  without  satisfaction  ;  and 
can  cheerfully  look  forward  to  still  other  '  Memoirs '  follow- 
ing in  their  train.  Nothing  can  be  more  in  the  course  of 
Nature  than  the  wish  to  satisfy  oneself  with  knowledge  of  all 
sorts  about  any  distinguished  person,  especially  of  our  own 
era;  the  true  study  of  his  character,  his  spiritual  individu- 

1  '  By  Frank  Hall  Standish,  Esq.'  (London,  1821);  a  work,  which  we 
can  recommend  only  to  such  as  feel  themselves  in  extreme  want  of  infor- 
mation on  this  subject,  and  except  in  their  own  language  unable  to  acquire 
any.  It  is  written  very  badly,  though  with  sincerity,  and  not  without 
considerable  indications  of  talent;  to  all  appearance,  by  a  minor;  many 
of  whose  statements  and  opinions  (for  lie  seems  an  inquiring,  honest- 
hearted,  rather  decisive  character)  must  have  begun  to  astonish  even 
himself,  several  years  ago. 


VOLTAIRE. 


13 


ality  and  peculiar  manner  of  existence,  is  full  of  instruction 
for  all  mankind :  even  that  of  his  looks,  sayings,  habitudes 
and  indifferent  actions,  were  not  the  records  of  them  gener- 
ally lies,  is  rather  to  be  commended ;  nay,  are  not  such  lies 
themselves,  when  they  keep  within  bounds,  and  the  subject 
of  them  has  been  dead  for  some  time,  equal  to  snipe-shoot- 
ing, or  Colburn-Novels,  at  least  little  inferior,  in  the  great 
art  of  getting  done  with  life,  or,  as  it  is  technically  called, 
killing  time  ?  For  our  own  part,  we  say :  Would  that  every 
Johnson  in  the  world  had  his  veridical  Boswell,  or  leash  of 
Boswells  !  We  could  then  tolerate  his  Hawkins  also,  though 
not  veridical..  With  regard  to  Voltaire,  in  particular,  it 
seems  to  us  not  only  innocent  but  profitable,  that  the  whole 
truth  regarding  him  should  be  well  understood.  Surely,  the 
biography  of  such  a  man,  who,  to  say  no  more  of  him,  spent 
his  best  efforts,  and  as  many  still  think,  successfully,  in  as- 
saulting the  Christian  religion,  must  be  a  matter  of  consider- 
able import ;  what  he  did,  and  what  he  could  not  do ;  how  he 
did  it,  or  attempted  it,  that  is,  with  what  degree  of  strength, 
clearness,  especially  with  what  moral  intents,  what  theories 
and  feelings  on  man  and  man's  life,  are  questions  that  will 
bear  some  discussing.  To  Voltaire  individually,  for  the  last 
fifty-one  years,  the  discussion  has  been  indifferent  enough  ; 
and  to  us  it  is  a  discussion  not  on  one  remarkable  person 
only,  and  chiefly  for  the  curious  or  studious,  but  involving 
considerations  of  highest  moment  to  all  men,  and  inquiries 
which  the  utmost  compass  of  our  philosophy  will  be  unable 
to  embrace. 

Here,  accordingly,  we  are  about  to  offer  some  farther 
observations  on  this  qucestio  vexata  ;  not  without  hope  that 
the  reader  may  accept  them  in  good  part.  Doubtless,  when 
we  look  at  the  whole  bearings  of  the  matter,  there  seems 
little  prospect  of  any  unanimity  respecting  it,  either  now,  or 
within  a  calculable  period :  it  is  probable  that  many  will 
continue,  for  a  long  time,  to  speak  of  this  '  universal  genius,' 
this  '  apostle  of  Reason,'  and  '  father  of  sound  Philosophy J, ' 


14 


MISCELLANIES. 


and  many  again,  of  this  '  monster  of  impiety,'  this  '  sophist,' 
and  'atheist,'  and  'ape-demon  or,  like  ihe  late  Dr.  Clarke 
of  Cambridge,  dismiss  him  more  briefly  with  information  that 
he  is  '  a  driveller : '  neither  is  it  essential  that  these  two 
parties  should,  on  the  spur  of  the  instant,  reconcile  them- 
selves herein.  Nevertheless,  truth  is  better  than  error,  were 
it  only  '  on  Hannibal's  vinegar.'  It  may  be  expected  that 
men's  opinions  concerning  Voltaire,  which  is  of  some  mo- 
ment, and  concerning  Voltairism,  which  is  of  almost  bound- 
less moment,  will,  if  they  cannot  meet,  gradually  at  every 
new  comparison  approach  towards  meeting;  and  what  is 
still  more  desirable,  towards  meeting  somewhere  nearer  the 
truth  than  they  actually  stand. 

With  honest  wishes  to  promote  such  approximation,  there 
is  one  condition,  which,  above  all  others,  in  this  inquiry,  we 
must  beg  the  reader  to  impose  on  himself:  the  duty  of  fair- 
ness towards  Voltaire,  of  tolerance  towards  him,  as  towards 
all  men.  This,  truly,  is  a  duty,  which  we  have  the  happi- 
ness to  hear  daily  inculcated ;  yet  which,  it  has  been  well 
said,  no  mortal  is  at  bottom  disposed  to  practise.  Neverthe- 
less, if  we  really  desire  to  understand  the  truth  on  any  sub- 
ject, not  merely,  as  is  much  more  common,  to  confirm  our 
already  existing  opinions,  and  gratify  this  and  the  other 
pitiful  claim  of  vanity  or  malice  in  respect  of  it,  tolerance 
may  be  regarded  as  the  most  indispensable  of  all  pre-requi- 
sites;  the  condition,  indeed,  by  which  alone  any  real  prog- 
ress in  the  question  becomes  possible.  In  respect  of  our 
fellow-men,  and  all  real  insight  into  their  characters,  this  is 
especially  true.  No  character,  we  may  affirm,  was  ever 
rightly  understood,  till  it  had  first  been  regarded  with  a  cer- 
tain feeling,  not  of  tolerance  only,  but  of  sympathy.  For 
here,  more  than  in  any  other  case,  it  is  verified  that  the  heart 
sees  farther  than  the  head.  Let  us  be  sure,  our  enemy  is 
not  that  hateful  being  we  are  too  apt  to  paint  him.  His 
vices  and  basenesses  lie  combined  in  far  other  order  before 
his  own  mind,  than  before  ours  ;  and  under  colours  which 


VOLTAIRE. 


15 


palliate  them,  nay  perhaps  exhibit  them  as  virtues.  "Were 
he  the  wretch  of  our  imagining,  his  life  would  be  a  burden  to 
himself:  for  it  is  not  by  bread  alone  that  the  basest  mortal 
lives  ;  a  certain  approval  of  conscience  is  equally  essential 
even  to  physical  existence  ;  is  the  fine  all-pervading  cement 
by  which  that  wondrous  union,  a  Self,  is  held  together. 
Since  the  man,  therefore,  is  not  in  Bedlam,  and  has  not  shot 
or  hanged  himself,  let  us  take  comfort,  and  conclude  that  he 
is  one  of  two  things  :  either  a  vicious  dog,  in  man's  guise,  to 
be  muzzled  and  mourned  over,  and  greatly  marvelled  at ;  or 
a  real  man,  and  consequently  not  without  moral  worth,  which 
is  to  be  enlightened,  and  so  far  approved  of.  But  to  judge 
rightly  of  his  character,  we  must  learn  to  look  at  it,  not  less 
with  his  eyes,  than  with  our  own ;  we  must  learn  to  pity  him, 
to  see  him  as  a  fellow-creature,  in  a  word,  to  love  him  ;  or 
his  real  spiritual  nature  will  ever  be  mistaken  by  us.  In 
interpreting  Voltaire,  accordingly,  it  will  be  needful  to  bear 
some  things  carefully  in  mind,  and  to  keep  many  other  things 
as  carefully  in  abeyance.  Let  us  forget  that  our  opinions 
were  ever  assailed  by  him,  or  ever  defended ;  that  we  have 
to  thank  him,  or  upbraid  him,  for  pain  or  for  pleasure  ;  let 
us  forget  that  we  are  Deists  or  Millennarians,  Bishops  or 
Radical  Reformers,  and  remember  only  that  we  are  men. 
This  is  a  European  subject,  or  there  never  was  one ;  and 
must,  if  we  would  in  the  least  comprehend  it,  be  looked  at 
neither  from  the  parish  belfry,  nor  any  Peterloo  platform  ; 
but,  if  possible,  from  some  natural  and  infinitely  higher  point 
of  vision. 

It  is  a  remarkable  fact,  that  throughout  the  last  fifty  years 
of  his  life,  Voltaire  was  seldom  or  never  named,  even  by 
his  detractors,  without  the  epithet  '  great '  being  appended  to 
him  ;  so  that,  had  the  syllables  suited  such  a  junction,  as 
they  did  in  the  happier  case  of  Charle-Magne,  we  might 
almost  have  expected  that,  not  Voltaire,  but  Voltaire-ce- 
grand-homme  would  be  his  designation  with  posterity.  How- 
ever, posterity  is  much  more  stinted  in  its  allowances  on  that 


16 


MISCELLANIES. 


score  ;  and  a  multitude  of  things  remain  to  be  adjusted,  and 
questions  of  very  dubious  issue  to  be  gone  into,  before  such 
coronation-titles  can  be  conceded  with  any  permanence.  The 
million,  even  the  wiser  part  of  them,  are  apt  to  lose  their  dis- 
cretion, when  'tumultously  assembled;'  for  a  small  object, 
near  at  hand,  may  subtend  a  large  angle  ;  and  often  a  Pen- 
nenden  Heath  has  been  mistaken  for  a  Field  of  Runnymead  ; 
whereby  the  couplet  on  that  immortal  Dalhousie  proves  to 
be  the  emblem  of  many  a  man's  real  fortune  with  the  public : 

And  thou,  Dalhousie,  the  great  God  of  War, 
Lieutenant- Colonel  to  the  Earl  of  Mar; 

the  latter  end  corresponding  poorly  with  the  beginning.  To 
ascertain  what  was  the  true  significance  of  Voltaire's  history, 
both  as  respects  himself  and  the  world  ;  what  was  his  specific 
character  and  value  as  a  man  ;  what  has  been  the  character 
and  value  of  his  influence  on  society,  of  his  appearance  as  an 
active  agent  in  the  culture  of  Europe  :  all  this  leads  us  into 
much  deeper  investigations  ;  on  the  settlement  of  which,  how- 
ever, the  whole  business  turns. 

To  our  own  view,  we  confess,  on  looking  at  Voltaire's  life, 
the  chief  quality  that  shows  itself  is  one  for  which  adroitness 
seems  the  fitter  name.  Greatness  implies  several  conditions, 
the  existence  of  which  in  his  case  it  might  be  difficult  to 
demonstrate  ;  but  of  his  claim  to  this  other  praise  there  can 
be  no  disputing.  Whatever  be  his  aims,  high  or  low,  just  or 
the  contrary,  he  is,  at  all  times  and  to  the  utmost  degree, 
expert  in  pursuing  them.  It  is  to  be  observed,  moreover, 
that  his  aims  in  general  were  not  of  a  simple  sort,  and  the 
attainment  of  them  easy :  few  literary  men  have  had  a 
course  so  diversified  with  vicissitudes  as  Voltaire's.  His  life 
is  not  spent  in  a  corner,  like  that  of  a  studious  recluse,  but 
on  the  open  theatre  of  the  world  ;  in  an  age  full  of  commo- 
tion, when  society  is  rending  itself  asunder,  Superstition 
already  armed  for  deadly  battle  against  Unbelief ;  in  which 
battle  he  himself  plays  a  distinguished  part.    From  his  ear- 


VOLTAIRE. 


17 


liest  years,  we  find  lfim  in  perpetual  communication  with  the 
higher  personages  of  his  time,  often  with  the  highest  :  it  is 
in  circles  of  authority,  of  reputation,  at  lowest  of  fashion 
and  rank,  that  he  lives  and  works.  Ninon  de  l'Enclos  leaves 
the  boy  a  legacy  to  buy  books  ;  he  is  still  young,  when  he 
can  say  of  his  supper  companions,  "  We  are  all  Princes  or 
Poets."  In  after  life,  he  exhibits  himself  in  company  or  cor- 
respondence with  all  manner  of  principalities  and  powers,  from 
Queen  Caroline  of  England  to  the  Empress  Catherine  of 
Russia,  from  Pope  Benedict  to  Frederick  the  Great.  Mean- 
while, shifting  from  side  to  side  of  Eui-ope,  hiding  in  the  coun- 
try, or  living  sumptuously  ill  capital  cities,  he  quits  not  his 
pen ;  with  which,  as  with  some  enchanter's  rod,  more  potent 
than  any  king's  sceptre,  he  turns  and  winds  the  mighty  ma- 
chine of  European  Opinion  ;  approves  himself,  as  his  school- 
master had  predicted,  the  Coryphee  du  Deisme  ;  and,  not  con- 
tent with  this  elevation,  strives,  and  nowise  ineffectually,  to 
unite  with  it  a  poetical,  historical,  philosophic  and  even  scien- 
tific preeminence.  Nay,  we  may  add,  a  pecuniary  one  ;  for  he 
speculates  in  the  funds,  diligently  solicits  pensions  and  pro- 
motions, trades  to  America,  is  long  a  regular  victualling-con- 
tractor for  armies  ;  and  thus,  by  one  means  and  another, 
independently  of  literature  which  w^ould  never  yield  much 
money,  raises  his  income  from  800  francs  a-year  to  more  than 
centuple  that  sum.1  And  now,  having,  besides  all  this  com- 
mercial and  economical  business,  written  some  thirty  quartos, 
the  most  popular  that  were  ever  written,  he  returns  after 
long  exile  to  his  native  city,  to  be  welcomed  there  almost 
as  a  religious  idol ;  and  closes  a  life,  prosperous  alike  in  the 
building  of  country-seats,  and  the  composition  of  Henriades 
and  Philosophical  Dictionaries,  by  the  most  appropriate  de- 
mise, —  by  drowning,  as  it  were,  in  an  ocean  of  applause  ; 
so  that  as  he  lived  for  fame,  he  may  be  said  to  have  died 
of  it. 

Such  various,  complete  success,  granted  only  to  a  small 
1  See  Tome  ii.  p.  328  of  these  Memoires. 

VOL.  II.  2 


18 


MISCELLANIES. 


portion  of  men  in  any  age  of  the  world,  presupposes  at  least, 
with  every  allowance  for  good  fortune,  an  almost  unrivalled 
expertness  of  management.  There  must  have  been  a  great 
talent  of  some  kind  at  work  here  ;  a  cause  proportionate  to 
the  effect.  It  is  wonderful,  truly,  to  observe  with  what  per- 
fect skill  Voltaire  steers  his  course  through  so  many  con- 
flicting circumstances :  how  he  weathers  this  Cape  Horn, 
darts  lightly  through  that  Mahlstrom  ;  always  either  sinks 
his  enemy,  or  shuns  him  ;  here  waters,  and  careens,  and 
traffics  with  the  rich  savages ;  there  lies  land-locked  till 
the  hurricane  is  overblown  ;  and  so,  in  spite  of  all  billows, 
and  sea-monsters,  and  hostile  fleets,  finishes  his  long  Ma- 
nilla voyage,  with  streamers  flying,  and  deck  piled  with 
ingots  !  To  say  nothing  of  his  literary  character,  of  which 
this  same  dexterous  address  will  also  be  found  to  be  a  main 
feature,  let  us  glance  only  at  the  general  aspect  of  his  con- 
duct, as  manifested  both  in  his  writings  and  actions.  By 
turns,  and  ever  at  the  right  season,  he  is  imperious  and  ob- 
sequious ;  now  shoots  abroad,  from  the  mountain  tops,  Hy- 
perion-like, his  keen  innumerable  shafts  ;  anon,  when  danger 
is  advancing,  flies  to  obscure  nooks ;  or,  if  taken  in  the  fact, 
swears  it  was  but  in  sport,  and  that  he  is  the  peaceablest  of 
men.  He  bends  to  occasion  ;  can,  to  a  certain  extent,  blow 
hot  or  blow  cold  ;  and  never  attempts  force,  where  cunning 
will  serve  his  turn.  The  beagles  of  the  Hierarchy  and  of 
the  Monarchy,  proverbially  quick  of  scent  and  sharp  of 
tooth,  are  out  in  quest  of  him  ;  but  this  is  a  lion-fox  which 
cannot  be  captured.  By  wiles  and  a  thousand  doublings,  he 
utterly  distracts  his  pursuers  ;  he  can  burrow  in  the  earth, 
and  all  the  trace  of  him  is  gone.1  With  a  strange  system 
of  anonymity  and  publicity,  of  denial  and  assertion,  of  Mys- 

i  Of  one  such  'taking  to  cover'  we  have  a  curious  and  rather  ridicu- 
lous account  in  this  Work,  by  Longchainp.  It  was  with  the  Duchess  du 
Maine  that  he  sought  shelter,  and  on  a  very  slight  occasion:  nevertheless 
he  had  to  lie  perdue,  for  two  months,  at  the  Castle  of  Sceaux;  and,  with 
(dosed  windows,  and  burning  candles  in  daylight,  compose  Zadig,  Bdboue, 
Memnon,  cj'c.  for  his  amusement. 


VOLTAIRE. 


19 


tifieation  in  all  senses,*has  Voltaire  surrounded  himself.  He 
can  raise  no  standing  armies  for  his  defence,  yet  he  too  is  a 
'European  Power,'  and  not  undefended;  an  invisible,  im- 
pregnable, though  hitherto  unrecognised  bulwark,  that  of 
Public  Opinion,  defends  him.  With  great  art,  he  maintains 
this  stronghold  ;  though  ever  and  anon  sallying  out  from 
it,  far  beyond  the  permitted  limits.  But  he  has  his  coat  of 
darkness,  and  his  shoes  of  swiftness,  like  that  other  Killer 
of  Giants.  We  find  Voltaire  a  supple  courtier,  or  a  sharp 
satirist ;  he  can  talk  blasphemy,  and  build  churches,  accord- 
ing to  the  signs  of  the  times.  Frederick  the  Great  is  not 
too  high  for  his  diplomacy,  nor  the  poor  Printer  of  his  Zadig 
too  low  ; 1  he  manages  the  Cardinal  Fleuri,  and  the  Cure  of 
St.  Sulpice  ;  and  laughs  in  his  sleeve  at  all  the  world.  We 
should  pronounce  him  to  be  one  of  the  best  politicians  on 
record ;  as  we  have  said,  the  adroitest  of  all  literary  men. 

At  the  same  time,  Voltaire's  worst  enemies,  it  seems  to  us, 
will  not  deny  that  he  had  naturally  a  keen  sense  for  recti- 
tude, indeed  for  all  virtue  :  the  utmost  vivacity  of  tempera- 
ment characterises  him ;  his  quick  susceptibility  for  every 
form  of  beauty  is  moral  as  well  as  intellectual.  Nor  was  his 
practice  without  indubitable  and  highly  creditable  proofs  of 
this.  To  the  help-needing  he  was  at  all  times  a  ready  bene- 
factor :  many  were  the  hungry  adventurers  who  profited  of 
his  bounty,  and  then  bit  the  hand  that  had  fed  them.  If  we 
enumerate  his  generous  acts,  from  the  case  of  the  Abbe 
Desfontaines  down  to  that  of  the  Widow  Calas,  and  the 
Serfs  of  Saint  Claude,  we  shall  find  that  few  private  men 
have  had  so  wide  a  circle  of  charity,  and  have  watched  over 
it  so  well.  Should  it  be  objected  that  love  of  reputation  en- 
tered largely  into  these  proceedings,  Voltaire  can  afford  a 
handsome  deduction  on  that  head  :  should  the  uncharitable 
even  calculate  that  love  of  reputation  was  the  sole  motive, 
we  can  only  remind  them  that  love  of  such  reputation  is 

1  See  in  Longchamp  (pp.  154-163)  bow,  by  natural  legei-demain,  a  knave 
may  be  caugbt,  and  the  change  rendu  a  des  imprimeurs  infideles. 


20 


MISCELLANIES. 


itself  the  effect  of  a  social,  humane  disposition  ;  and  wish, 
as  an  immense  improvement,  that  all  men  were  animated 
with  it.  Voltaire  was  not  without  his  experience  of  human 
baseness  ;  but  he  still  had  a  fellow-feeling  for  human  suffer- 
ings ;  and  delighted,  were  it  only  as  an  honest  luxury,  to 
relieve  them.  His  attachments  seem  remarkably  constant 
and  lasting  :  even  such  sots  as  Thiriot,  whom  nothing  but 
habit  could  have  endeared  to  him,  he  continues,  and  after 
repeated  injuries,  to  treat  and  regard  as  friends.  Of  his 
equals  we  do  not  observe  him  envious,  at  least  not  palpably 
and  despicably  so  ;  though  this,  we  should  add,  might  be  in 
him,  who  was  from  the  first  so  paramountry  popular,  no  such 
hard  attainment.  Against  Montesquieu,  perhaps  against  him 
alone,  lie  cannot  help  entertaining  a  small  secret  grudge  ;  yet 
ever  in  public  he  does  him  the  amplest  justice;  I'Arlequin- 
Grotius  of  the  fireside  becomes,  on  all  grave  occasions,  the 
author  of  the  Esprit  des  Loix.  Neither  to  his  enemies,  and 
even  betrayers,  is  Voltaire  implacable  or  meanly  vindictive  : 
the  instant  of  their  submission  is  also  the  instant  of  his  for- 
giveness ;  their  hostility  itself  provokes  only  casual  sallies 
from  him  ;  his  heart  is  too  kindly,  indeed  too  light,  to  cherish 
any  rancour,  any  continuation  of  revenge.  If  he  has  not  the 
virtue  to  forgive,  he  is  seldom  without  the  prudence  to  for- 
get :  if,  in  his  life-long  contentions,  he  cannot  treat  his  oppo- 
nents with  any  magnanimity,  he  seldom,  or  perhaps  never 
once,  treats  them  quite  basely  ;  seldom  or  never  with  that 
absolute  unfairness,  which  the  law  of  retaliation  might  so 
often  have  seemed  to  justify.  We  would  say  that,  if  no 
heroic,  he  is  at  all  times  a  perfectly  civilised  man  ;  which, 
considering  that  his  war  was  with  exasperated  theologians, 
and  a  '  war  to  the  knife '  on  their  part,  may  be  looked  upon 
as  rather  a  surprising  circumstance.  He  exhibits  many 
minor  virtues,  a  due  appreciation  of  the  highest;  and  fewer 
faults  than,  in  his  situation,  might  have  been  expected,  and 
perhaps  pardoned. 

All  this  is  well,  and  may  fit  out  a  highly  expert  and  much 


VOLTAIRE. 


21 


esteemed  man  of  business,  in  the  widest  sense  of  that  term  ; 
but  is  still  far  from  constituting  a  '  great  character.'  In  fact, 
there  is  one  deficiency  in  Voltaire's  original  structure,  which, 
it  appears  to  us,  must  be  quite  fatal  to  such  claims  for  him  : 
we  mean  his  inborn  levity  of  nature,  his  entire  want  of  Ear- 
nestness. Voltaire  was  by  birth  a  Mocker,  and  light  Pococu- 
rante ;  which  natural  disposition  his  way  of  life  confirmed 
into  a  predominant,  indeed  all-pervading  habit.  Far  be  it 
from  us  to  say,  that  solemnity  is  an  essential  of  greatness  ; 
.  that  no  great  man  can  have  other  than  a  rigid  vinegar  aspect 
of  countenance,  never  to  be  thawed  or  warmed  by  billows  of 
mirth  !  There  are  things  in  this  world  to  be  laughed  at,  as 
well  as  things  to  be  admired  ;  and  his  is  no  complete  mind, 
that  cannot  give  to  each  sort  its  due.  Nevei'theless,  con- 
tempt is  a  dangerous  element  to  sport  in ;  a  deadly  one,  if 
we  habitually  live  in  it.  How,  indeed,  to  take  the  lowest 
view  of  this  matter,  shall  a  man  accomplish  great  enter- 
prises ;  enduring  all  toil,  resisting  temptation,  laying  aside 
every  weight,  —  unless  he  zealously  love  what  he  pursues  ? 
The  faculty  of  love,  of  admiration,  is  to  be  regarded  as  the 
sign  and  the  measure  of  high  souls  :  unwisely  directed,  it 
leads  to  many  evils ;  but  without  it,  there  cannot  be  any 
good.  Ridicule,  on  the  other  hand,  is  indeed  a  faculty  much 
prized  by  its  possessors  ;  yet,  intrinsically,  it  is  a  small  facul- 
ty ;  we  may  say,  the  smallest  of  all  faculties  that  other  men 
are  at  the  pains  to  repay  with  any  esteem.  It  is  directly 
opposed  to  Thought,  to  Knowledge,  properly  so  called ;  its 
nourishment  and  essence  is  Denial,  which  hovers  only  on  the 
surface,  while  Knowledge  dwells  far  below.  Moreover,  it  is 
by  nature  selfish  and  morally  trivial ;  it  cherishes  nothing 
but  our  Vanity,  which  may  in  general  be  left  safely  enough 
to  shift  for  itself.  Little  '  discourse  of  reason,'  in  any  sense, 
is  implied  in  Ridicule  :  a  scoffing  man  is  in  no  lofty  mood, 
for  the  time  ;  shows  more  of  the  imp  than  of  the  angel. 
This  too  when  his  scoffing  is  what  we  call  just,  and  has  some 
foundation  on  truth ;  while  again  the  laughter  of  fools,  that 


22 


MISCELLANIES. 


vain  sound  said  in  Scripture  to  resemble  the  '  crackling  of 
thorns  under  the  pot '  (which  they  cannot  heat,  but  only  soil 
and  begrime),  must  be  regarded,  in  these  latter  times,  as  a 
very  serious  addition  to  the  sum  of  human  wretchedness ; 
nor  perhaps  will  it  always,  when  the  Increase  of  Crime  in 
the  Metropolis  comes  to  be  debated,  escape  the  vigilance  of 
Parliament. 

We  have,  oftener  than  once,  endeavoured  to  attach  some 
meaning  to  that  aphorism,  vulgarly  imputed  to  Shaftesbury, 
which,  however,  we  can  find  nowhere  in  his  works,  that  ridi- 
cule is  the  test  of  truth.  But  of  all  chimeras  that  ever  ad- 
vanced themselves  in  the  shape  of  philosophical  doctrines, 
this  is  to  us  the  most  formless  and  purely  inconceivable. 
Did  or  could  the  unassisted  human  faculties  ever  understand 
it,  much  more  believe  it  ?  Surely,  so  far  as  the  common 
mind  can  discern,  laughter  seems  to  depend  not  less  on  the 
laugher  than  on  the  laughee :  and  now,  who  gave  laughers 
a  patent  to  be  always  just,  and  always  omniscient  ?  If  the 
philosophers  of  Nootka  Sound  were  pleased  to  laugh  at  the 
manoeuvres  of  Cook's  seamen,  did  that  render  these  manoeu- 
vres useless ;  and  were  the  seamen  to  stand  idle,  or  to  take 
to  leather  canoes,  till  the  laughter  abated  ?  Let  a  discerning 
public  judge. 

But,  leaving  these  questions  for  the  present,  we  may  ob- 
serve at  least  that  all  great  men  have  been  careful  to  subor- 
dinate this  talent  or  habit  of  ridicule  ;  nay,  in  the  ages  which 
we  consider  the  greatest,  most  of  the  arts  that  contribute  to 
it  have  been  thought  disgraceful  for  freemen,  and  confined  to 
the  exercise  of  slaves.  With  Voltaire,  however,  there  is  no 
such  subordination  visible  :  by  nature,  or  by  practice,  mock- 
ery has  grown  to  be  the  irresistible  bias  of  his  disposition  ; 
so  that  for  him,  in  all  matters,  the  first  question  is,  not  what 
is  true,  but  what  is  false  ;  not  what  is  to  be  loved,  and  held 
fast,  and  earnestly  laid  to  heart,  but  what  is  to  be  contemned, 
and  derided,  and  sportfully  cast  out  of  doors.  Here  truly  he 
earns  abundant  triumph  ;is  an  image-breaker,  but  pockets 


VOLTAIRE. 


23 


little  real  wealth.  'Vanity,  with  its  adjuncts,  as  we  have 
said,  finds  rich  solacement ;  but  for  aught  better,  there  is  not 
much.  Reverence,  the  highest  feeling  that  man's  nature  is 
capable  of,  the  crown  of  his  whole  moral  manhood,  and  pre- 
cious, like  fine  gold,  were  it  in  the  rudest  forms,  he  seems  not 
to  understand,  or  have  heard  of  even  by  credible  tradition. 
The  glory  of  knowing  and  believing  is  all  but  a  stranger  to 
him ;  only  with  that  of  questioning  and  qualifying  is  he  fa- 
miliar. Accordingly,  he  sees  but  a  little  way  into  Nature  : 
the  mighty  All,  in  its  beauty,  and  infinite  mysterious  gran- 
deur, humbling  the  small  Me  into  nothingness,  has  never 
even  for  moments  been  revealed  to  him ;  only  this  or  that 
other  atom  of  it,  and  the  differences  and  discrepancies  of 
these  two,  has  he  looked  into  and  noted  down.  His  theory 
of  the  world,  his  picture  of  man  and  man's  life,  is  little ;  for 
a  Poet  and  Philosopher,  even  pitiful.  Examine  it  in  its 
highest  developments,  you  find  it  an  altogether  vulgar  pic- 
ture ;  simply  a  reflex,  with  more  or  fewer  mirrors,  of  Self 
and  the  poor  interests  of  Self.  '  The  Divine  Idea,  that 
which  lies  at  the  bottom  of  Appearance,'  was  never  more  in- 
visible to  any  man.  He  reads  History  not  with  the  eye  of  a 
devout  seer,  or  even  of  a  critic ;  but  through  a  pair  of  mere 
anti-catholic  spectacles.  It  is  not  a  mighty  drama,  enacted 
on  the  theatre  of  Infinitude,  with  Suns  for  lamps,  and 
Eternity  as  a  background  ;  whose  author  is  God,  and  whose 
purport  and  thousandfold  moral  lead  us  up  to  the  <  dark  with 
excess  of  light '  of  the  Throne  of  God  ;  but  a  poor  weari- 
some debating-club  dispute,  spun  through  ten  centuries,  be- 
tween the  Encyclopedic  and  the  Sorbonne.  Wisdom  or  folly, 
nobleness  or  baseness,  are  merely  superstitious  or  unbeliev- 
ing: God's  Universe  is  a  larger  Patrimony  of  St.  Peter, 
from  which  it  were  well  and  pleasant  to  hunt  out  the  Pope. 

In  this  way,  Voltaire's  nature,  which  was  originally  vehe- 
ment rather  than  deep,  came,  in  its  maturity,  in  spite  of  all 
his  wonderful  gifts,  to  be  positively  shallow.  We  find  no 
heroism  of  chai-acter  in  him,  from  first  to  last ;  nay  there-  is 


24 


MISCELLANIES. 


not,  that  we  know  of,  one  great  thought  in  all  his  six-and- 
thirty  quartos.  The  high  worth  implanted  in  him  by  Nature, 
and  still  often  manifested  in  his  conduct,  does  not  shine  there 
like  a  light,  but  like  a  coruscation.  The  enthusiasm,  proper 
to  such  a  mind,  visits  him  ;  but  it  has  no  abiding  virtue  in 
his  thoughts,  no  local  habitation  and  no  name.  There  is  in 
him  a  rapidity,  but  at  the  same  time  a  pettiness  ;  a  certain 
violence,  and  fitful  abruptness,  which  takes  from  him  all  dig- 
nity. Of  his  emportemens,  and  tragicomical  explosions,  a 
thousand  anecdotes  are  on  record ;  neither  is  he,  in  these 
cases,  a  terrific  volcano,  but  a  mere  bundle  of  rockets.  He 
is  nigh  shooting  poor  Dorn,  the  Frankfort  constable ;  actually 
fires  a  pistol,  into  the  lobby,  at  him  ;  and  this,  three  days 
after  that  melancholy  business  of  the  '  CEuvre  de  Poeshie  du 
Roi  mon  Maitre '  had  been  finally  adjusted.  A  bookseller, 
who,  with  the  natural  instinct  of  fallen  mankind,  overcharges 
him,  receives  from  this  Philosopher,  by  way  of  payment  at 
sight,  a  slap  on  the  face.  Poor  Longchamp,  with  consider- 
able tact,  and  a  praiseworthy  air  of  second-table  respectabil- 
ity, details  various  scenes  of  this  kind :  how  Voltaire  dashed 
away  his  combs,  and  maltreated  his  wig,  and  otherwise 
fiercely  comported  himself,  the  very  first  morning  :  how  once, 
having  a  keenness  of  appetite,  sharpened  by  walking  and  a 
diet  of  weak  tea,  he  became  uncommonly  anxious  for  sup- 
per ;  and  Clairaut  and  Madame  du  Chatelet.  sunk  in  alge- 
braic calculations,  twice  promised  to  come  down,  but  still 
kept  the  dishes  cooling,  and  the  Philosopher  at  last  des- 
perately battered  open  their  locked  door  with  his  foot ;  ex- 
claiming, "  Vous  ef.es  done  de  concert  pour  me  f aire  mourir?" 
—  And  yet  Voltaire  had  a  true  kindness  of  heart ;  all  his 
domestics  and  dependents  loved  him,  and  continued  with 
him.  He  has  many  elements  of  goodness,  but  floating 
loosely;  nothing  is  combined  in  stedfast  union.  It  is  true, 
he  presents  in  general  a  surface  of  smoothness,  of  cultured 
regularity;  yet,  under  it,  there  is  not  the  silent  rock-bound 
strength  of  a  World,  but  the  wild  tumults  of  a  Chaos  are 


VOLTAIRE. 


2.3 


ever  bursting  through*.  He  is  a  man  of  power,  but  not  of 
beneficent  authority  ;  we  fear,  but  cannot  reverence  him  ; 
we  feel  him  to  be  stronger,  not  higher. 

Much  of  this  spiritual  shortcoming  and  perversion  might 
be  due  to  natural  defect;  but  much  of  it  also  is  due  to  the  age 
into  which  he  was  cast.  It  was  an  age  of  discord  and  divis- 
ion ;  the  approach  of  a  grand  crisis  in  human  affairs.  Al- 
ready we  discern  in  it  all  the  elements  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution ;  ancr  wonder,  so  easily  do  we  forget  how  entangled 
and  hidden  the  meaning  of  the  present  generally  is  to  us, 
that  all  men  did  not  foresee  the  comings-on  of  that  fearful 
convulsion.  On  the  one  hand,  a  high  all-attempting  activ- 
ity of  Intellect  ;  the  most  peremptory  spirit  of  inquiry 
abroad  on  every  subject ;  things  human  and  things  divine 
alike  cited  without  misgivings  before  the  same  boastful  tribu- 
nal of  so-called  Reason,  which  means  here  a  merely  argumen- 
tative Logic ;  the  strong  in  mind  excluded  from  his  regular 
influence  in  the  state,  and  deeply  conscious  of  that  injury. 
On  the  other  hand,  a  privileged  few,  strong  in  the  subjection 
of  the  many,  yet  in  itself  weak ;  a  piebald,  and  fur  most  part 
altogether  decrepit  battalion  of  Clergy,  of  purblind  Nobility, 
or  rather  of  Courtiers,  for  as  yet  the  Nobility  is  mostly  on 
the  other  side :  these  cannot  fight  with  Logic,  and  the  day  of 
Persecution  is  wellnigh  done.  The  whole  force  of  law,  in- 
deed, is  still  in  their  hands  ;  but  the  far  deeper  force,  which 
alone  gives  efficacy  to  law,  is  hourly  passing  from  them. 
Hope  animates  one  side,  fear  the  other ;  and  the  battle  will 
be  fierce  and  desperate.  For  there  is  wit  without  wisdom 
on  the  part  of  the  self-styled  Philosophers  ;  feebleness  with 
exasperation  on  the  part  of  their  opponents  ;  pride  enough 
on  all  hands,  but  little  magnanimity ;  perhaps  nowhere  any 
pure  love  of  truth,  only  everywhere  the  purest,  most  ardent 
love  of  self.  In  such  a  state  of  things,  there  lay  abundant 
principles  of  discord:  these  two  influences  hung  like  fast- 
gathering  electric  clouds,  as  yet  on  opposite  sides  of  the 
horizon,  but  with  a  malignity  of  aspect,  which  boded,  when- 


26 


MISCELLANIES. 


ever  they  might  meet,  a  sky  of  fire  and  blackness,  thunder- 
bolts to  waste  the  earth ;  and  the  sun  and  stars,  though  but 
for  a  season,  to  be  blotted  out  from  the  heavens.  For  there 
is  no  conducting  medium  to  unite  softly  these  hostile  ele- 
ments ;  there  is  no  true  virtue,  no  true  wisdom,  on  the  one 
side  or  on  the  other.  Never  perhaps  was  there  an  epoch,  in 
the  history  of  the  world,  when  universal  corruption  called  so 
loudly  for  reform ;  and  they  who  undertook  that  task  were 
men  intrinsically  so  worthless.  Not  by  Gracchi  but  by  Cati- 
lines,  not  by  Luthers  but  by  Aretines,  was  Europe  to  be 
renovated.  The  task  has  been  a  long  and  bloody  one ;  and 
is  still  far  from  done. 

In  this  condition  of  affairs,  what  side  such  a  man  as  Vol- 
taire was  to  take  could  not  be  doubtful.  Whether  he  ought  to 
have  taken  either  side  ;  whether  he  should  not  rather  have  sta- 
tioned himself  in  the  middle  ;  the  partisan  of  neither,  perhaps 
hated  by  both  ;  acknowledging  and  forwarding,  and  striving 
to  reconcile,  what  truth  was  in  each ;  and  preaching  forth  a 
far  deeper  truth,  which,  if  his  own  century  had  neglected  it, 
had  persecuted  it,  future  centuries  would  have  recognised  as 
priceless :  all  this  was  another  question.  Of  no  man,  how- 
ever gifted,  can  we  require  what  he  has  not  to  give:  but 
Voltaire  called  himself  Philosopher,  nay  the  Philosopher. 
And  such  has  often,  indeed  generally,  been  the  fate  of  great 
men,  and  Lovers  of  Wisdom :  their  own  age  and  country 
have  treated  them  as  of  no  account ;  in  the  great  Corn-Ex- 
change  of  the  world,  their  pearls  have  seemed  but  spoiled 
barley,  and  been  ignominiously  rejected.  Weak  in  adherents, 
strong  only  in  their  faith,  in  their  indestructible  conscious- 
ness of  worth  and  well-doing,  they  have  silently,  or  in  words, 
appealed  to  coming  ages,  when  their  own  ear  would  indeed 
be  shut  to  the  voice  of  love  and  of  hatred,  but  the  Truth  that 
had  dwelt  in  them  would  speak  with  a  voice  audible  to  all. 
Bacon  left  his  works  to  future  generations,  when  some  cen- 
turies should  have  elapsed.  '  Is  it  much  for  me,'  said  Kep- 
ler, in  his  isolation,  and  extreme  need,  'that  men  should 


VOLTAIRE. 


27 


'  accept  my  discovery  ?  If  the  Almighty  waited  six  thou- 
'  sand  years  for  one  to  see  what  He  had  made,  I  may  surely 
'  wait  two  hundred  for  one  to  understand  what  I  have  seen  ! ' 
All  this,  and  more,  is  implied  in  love  of  wisdom,  in  genuine 
seeking  of  truth :  the  noblest  function  that  can  be  appointed 
for  a  man,  but  requiring  also  the  noblest  man  to  fulfil  it. 

With  Voltaire,  however,  there  is  no  symptom,  perhaps 
there  was  no  conception,  of  such  nobleness ;  the  high  call  for 
which,  indeed,*  in  the  existing  state  of  things,  his  intellect 
may  have  had  as  little  the  force  to  discern,  as  his  heart  had 
the  force  to  obey.  He  follows  a  simpler  course.  Heedless 
of  remoter  issues,  he  adopts  the  cause  of  his  own  party ; 
of  that  class  with  whom  he  lived,  and  was  most  anxious  to 
stand  well :  he  enlists  in  their  ranks,  not  without  hopes  that 
he  may  one  day  rise  to  be  their  general.  A  resolution  per- 
fectly accordant  with  his  prior  habits,  and  temper  of  mind; 
and  from  which  his  whole  subsequent  procedure,  and  moral 
aspect  as  a  man,  naturally  enough  evolves  itself.  Not  that 
we  would  say,  Voltaire  was  a  mere  prize-fighter ;  one  of 
'  Heaven's  Swiss,'  contending  for  a  cause  which  he  only  half, 
or  not  at  all  approved  of.  Far  from  it.  Doubtless  he  loved 
truth,  doubtless  he  partially  felt  himself  to  be  advocating 
truth ;  nay  we  know  not  that  he  has  ever  yet,  in  a  single 
instance,  been  convicted  of  wilfully  perverting  his  belief ;  of 
uttering,  in  all  his  controversies,  one  deliberate  falsehood. 
Nor  should  this  negative  praise  seem  an  altogether  slight 
one ;  for  greatly  were  it  to  be  wished  that  even  the  best  of 
his  better-intentioned  opponents  had  always  deserved  the 
like.  Nevertheless,  his  love  of  truth  is  not  that  deep  infinite 
love,  which  beseems  a  Philosopher ;  which  many  ages  have 
been  fortunate  enough  to  witness ;  nay,  of  which  his  own  age 
had  still  some  examples.  It  is  a  far  inferior  love,  we  should 
say,  to  that  of  poor  Jean  Jacques,  half-sage,  half-maniac  as  he 
was  ;  it  is  more  a  prudent  calculation  than  a  passion.  Vol- 
taire loves  Truth,  but  chiefly  of  the  triumphant  sort :  we 
have  no  instance  of  his  fighting  for  a  quite  discrowned  and 


28 


MISCELLANIES. 


outcast  Truth ;  it  is  chiefly  when  she  walks  abroad,  in  dis- 
tress it  may  be,  but  still  with  queenlike  insignia,  and  knight- 
hoods and  renown  are  to  be  earned  in  her  battles,  that  he 
defends  her,  that  he  charges  gallantly  against  the  Cades  and 
Tylers.  Nay,  at  all  times,  belief  itself  seems,  with  him,  to 
be  less  the  product  of  Meditation  than  of  Argument.  His 
first  question  with  regard  to  any  doctrine,  perhaps  his  final 
test  of  its  worth  and  genuineness  is  :  Can  others  be  convinced 
of  this  ?  Can  I  truck  it,  in  the  market,  for  power  ?  '  To  such 
questioners,'  it  has  been  said,  '  Truth,  who  buys  not,  and 
'  sells  not,  goes  on  her  way,  and  makes  no  answer.' 

In  fact,  if  we  inquire  into  Voltaire's  ruling  motive,  we 
shall  find  that  it  was  at  bottom  but  a  vulgar  one :  ambition, 
the  desire  of  ruling,  by  such  means  as  he  had,  over  other 
men.  He  acknowledges  no  higher  divinity  than  Public 
Opinion ;  for  whatever  he  asserts  or  perfoi'ms,  the  number 
of  votes  is  the  measure  of  strength  and  value.  Yet  let  us  be 
just  to  him ;  let  us  admit  that  he  in  some  degree  estimates 
his  votes,  as  well  as  counts  them.  If  love  of  fame,  which, 
especially  for  such  a  man,  we  can  only  call  another  modification 
of  Vanity,  is  always  his  ruling  passion,  he  has  a  certain  taste 
in  gratifying  it.  His  vanity,  which  cannot  be  extinguished, 
is  ever  skilfully  concealed ;  even  his  just  claims  are  never 
boisterously  insisted  on ;  throughout  his  whole  life  he  shows 
no  single  feature  of  the  quack.  Nevertheless,  even  in  the 
height  of  his  glory,  he  has  a  strange  sensitiveness  to  the 
judgment  of  the  world:  could  he  have  contrived  a  Dio- 
nysius'  Ear,  in  the  Rue  Traversiere,  we  should  have  found 
him  watching  at  it,  night  and  day.  Let  but  any  little  evil- 
disposed  Abbe,  any  Fre>on  or  Piron, 

Pauvre  Piron,  qui  tie  fat  jamais  rien, 

Pas  mane  Acadcmicien, 

write  a  libel  or  epigram  on  him,  wliat  a  fluster  he  is  in !  We 
grant  he  forbore  much,  in  these  cases  ;  manfully  consumed 
his  own  spleen,  and  sometimes  long  held  his  peace  ;  but  it  was 
his  part  to  have  always  done  so.  s  Why  should  such  a  man 


VOLTAIRE. 


29 


ruffle  himself  with  the  spite  of  exceeding  small  persons? 
"Why  not  let  these  poor  devils  write ;  why  should  not  they 
earn  a  dishonest  penny,  at  his  expense,  if  they  had  no  readier 
way  ?  But  Voltaire  cannot  part  with  his  '  voices,'  his  '  most 
sweet  voices : '  for  they  are  his  gods ;  take  these,  and  what 
has  he  left  ?  Accordingly,  in  literature  and  morals,  in  all  his 
comings  and  goings,  Ave  find  him  striving,  with  a  religious 
care,  to  sail  strictly  with  the  wind.  In  Art,  the  Parisian 
Parterre  is  his  court  of  last  appeal :  he  consults  the  Cafe  de 
Procope,  on  his  wisdom  or  his  folly,  as  if  it  were  a  Delphic 
Oracle.  The  following  adventure  helongs  to  his  fifty-fourth 
year,  when  his  fame  might  long  have  seemed  abundantly 
established.  "We  translate  from  the  Sienr  Longchamp's  thin, 
half-roguish,  mildly  obsequious,  most  lackey-like  Narrative  : 

'  Judges  could  appreciate  the  merits  of  Semiramis,  which  has  con- 
tinued on  the  stage,  and  always  been  seen  there  with  pleasure. 
Every  one  knows  how  the  two  principal  parts  in  this  piece  con- 
tributed to  the  celebrity  of  two  great  tragedians,  Mademoiselle  Du- 
mesnil  and  M.  le  Kain.  The  enemies  of  M.  de  Voltaire  renewed 
their  attempts  in  the  subsequent  representations  ;  but  it  only  the 
better  confirmed  his  triumph.  Piron,  to  console  himself  for  the  de- 
feat of  his  party,  had  recourse  to  his  usual  remedy  ;  pelting  the  piece 
with  some  paltry  epigrams,  which  did  it  no  harm. 

'Nevertheless,  M.  de  Voltaire,  who  always  loved  to  correct  his 
works,  and  perfect  them,  became  desirous  to  learn,  more  specially 
and  at  first  hand,  what  good  or  ill  the  public  were  saying  of  his 
Tragedy  ;  and  it  appeared  to  him  that  he  could  nowhere  learn  it 
better  than  in  the  Caf6  de  Procope,  which  was  also  called  the  Antn 
(Cavern)  de  Procope,  because  it  was  very  dark  even  in  full  day,  and 
ill-lighted  in  the  evenings;  and  because  you  often  saw  there  a  set  of 
lank,  sallow  poets,  who  had  somewhat  the  air  of  apparitions.  In  this 
Cafe,  which  fronts  the  Comedie  Francaise,  had  been  held,  for  more 
than  sixty  years,  the  tribunal  of  those  self-called  Aristarchs,  who 
fancied  they  could  pass  sentence  without  appeal,  on  plays,  authors 
and  actors.  M.  de  Voltaire  wished  to  compear  there,  but  in  disguise 
and  altogether  incognito.  It  was  on  coming  out  from  the  playhouse 
that  the  judges  usually  proceeded  thither,  to  open  what  they  called 
their  great  sessions.  On  the  second  night  of  Se'miramis,  he  borrowed 
a  clergyman's  clothes ;  dressed  himself  in  cassock  and  long  cloak  : 
black  stockings,  girdle,  bands,  breviary  itself;  nothing  was  forgotten. 


30 


MISCELLANIES. 


He  clapt  on  a  large  peruke,  unpowdered,  very  ill  combed,  which 
covered  more  than  the  half  of  his  cheeks,  and  left  nothing  to  be  seen 
but  the  end  of  a  long  nose.  The  peruke  was  surmounted  by  a  large 
three-cornered  hat,  corners  half  bruised-in.  In  this  equipment,  then, 
the  author  of  Simiramis  proceeded  on  foot  to  the  Cafe'  de  Procope, 
where  he  squatted  himself  in  a  corner ;  and  waiting  for  the  end  of 
the  play,  called  for  a  bavaroise,  a  small  roll  of  bread  and  the  Gazette. 
It  was  not  long  till  those  familiars  of  the  Parterre  and  tenants  of  the 
Caf€  stept  in.  They  instantly  began  discussing  the  new  Tragedy. 
Its  partisans  and  its  adversaries  pleaded  their  cause,  with  warmth ; 
each  giving  his  reasons.  Impartial  persons  also  spoke  their  senti- 
ment ;  and  repeated  some  fine  verses  of  the  piece.  During  all  this 
time,  M.  de  Voltaire,  with  spectacles  on  nose,  head  stooping  over  the 
Gazette  which  he  pretended  to  be  reading,  was  listening  to  the  de- 
bate ;  profiting  by  reasonable  observations,  suffering  much  to  hear 
very  absurd  ones,  and  not  answer  them,  which  irritated  him.  Thus 
during  an  hour  and  a  half,  had  he  the  courage  and  patience  to  hear 
Semiramis  talked  of  and  babbled  of,  without  speaking  a  word.  At 
last,  all  these  pretended  judges  of  the  fame  of  authors  having  gone 
their  ways,  without  converting  one  another,  M.  de  Voltaire  also 
went  off;  took  a  coach  in  the  Rue  Mazarine,  and  returned  home 
about  eleven  o'clock.  Though  I  knew  of  his  disguise,  I  confess  I 
was  struck  and  almost  frightened  to  see  him  accoutred  so.  I  took 
him  for  a  spectre,  or  shade  of  Ninus,  that  was  appearing  to  me  ;  or, 
at  least,  for  one  of  those  ancient  Irish  debaters,  arrived  at  the  end 
of  their  career,  after  wearing  themselves  out  in  school-syllogisms.  I 
helped  him  to  doff  all  that  apparatus,  which  I  carried  next  morning 
to  its  true  owner,  —  a  Doctor  of  the  Sorbonne.' 

This  stroke  of  art,  which  cannot  in  anywise  pass  for  sub- 
lime, might  have  its  uses  and  rational  purpose  in  one  case, 
and  only  in  one  :  if  Semiramis  was  meant  to  be  a  popular 
show,  that  was  to  live  or  die  by  its  first  impression  on  the 
idle  multitude;  which  accordingly  we  must  infer  to  have 
been  its  real,  at  least  its  chief  destination.  In  any  other  case, 
we  cannot  but  consider  this  Haroun-Alraschid  visit  to  the 
Cafe  de  Procope  as  questionable,  and  altogether  inadequate. 
If  Semiramis  was  a  Poem,  a  living  Creation,  won  from  the 
empyrean  by  the  silent  power  and  long-continued  Prome- 
thean toil  of  its  author,  what  could  the  Cafe  de  Procope  know 
of  it,  what  could  all  Paris  know  of  it,  'on  the  second  night  ? ' 


VOLTAIRE. 


31 


Had  it  been  a  Milton'S  Paradise  Lost,  they  might  have  de- 
spised it  till  after  the  fiftieth  year  !  True,  the  object  of  the 
Poet  is,  and  must  be,  to  '  instruct  by  pleasing,'  yet  not  by 
pleasing  this  man  and  that  man ;  only  by  pleasing  man,  by 
speaking  to  the  pure  nature  of  man,  can  any  real  '  instruc- 
tion,' in  this  sense,  be  conveyed.  Vain  does  it  seem  to 
search  for  a  judgment  of  this  kind  in  tl^e  largest  Cafe,  in  the 
largest  Kingdom,  '  on  the  second  night.'  The  deep,  clear 
consciousness  of  one  mind  comes  infinitely  nearer  it,  than  the 
loud  outcry  of  a  million  that  have  no  such  consciousness  ; 
whose  'talk,'  or  whose  'babble,'  but  distracts  the  listener; 
and  to  most  genuine  Poets  has,  from  of  old,  been  in  a  great 
measure  indifferent.  For  the  multitude  of  voices  is  no 
authority ;  a  thousand  voices  may  not,  strictly  examined, 
amount  to  one  vote.  Mankind  in  this  world  are  divided  into 
flocks,  and  follow  their  several  bell-wethers.  Now,  it  is  well 
known,  let  the  bell-wether  rush  through  any  gap,  the  rest  rush 
after  him,  were  it  into  bottomless  quagmires.  Nay,  so  con- 
scientious are  sheep  in  this  particular,  as  a  quaint  naturalist 
and  moralist  has  noted,  '  if  you  hold  a  stick  before  the  wether, 
'  ;0  that  he  is  forced  to  vault  in  his  passage,  the  whole  flock  will 
'  do  the  like  when  the  stick  is  withdrawn ;  and  the  thousandth 
'  sheep  shall  be  seen  vaulting  impetuously  over  air,  as  the 
'  first  did  over  an  otherwise  impassable  barrier  ! '  A  farther 
peculiarity,  which,  in  consulting  Acts  of  Parliament,  and 
other  authentic  records,  not  only  as  regards  '  Catholic  Dis- 
abilities,' but  many  other  matters,  you  may  find  curiously 
verified  in  the  human  species  also!  —  On  the  whole,  we  must 
consider  this  excursion  to  Procope's  literary  Cavern  as  illus- 
trating Voltaire  in  rather  pleasant  style ;  but  nowise  much  to 
his  honour.  Fame  seems  a  far  too  high,  if  not  the  highest 
object  with  him ;  nay  sometimes  even  popularity  is  clutched 
at :  we  see  no  heavenly  polestar  in  this  voyage  of  his ;  but 
only  the  guidance  of  a  proverbially  uncertain  wind. 

Voltaire  reproachfully  says  of  St.  Louis,  that  '  he  ought 
to  have  been  above  his  age ; '  but  in  his  own  case  we  can 


82 


MISCELLANIES. 


find  few  symptoms  of  such  heroic  superiority.  The  same 
perpetual  appeal  to  his  contemporaries,  the  same  intense 
regard  to  reputation,  as  he  viewed  it,  prescribes  for  him  both 
his  enterprises  and  his  manner  of  conducting  them.  His 
aim  is  to  please  the  more  enlightened,  at  least  the  politer 
part  of  the  world  ;  and  he  offers  them  simply  what  they 
most  wish  for,  be  it  in  theatrical  shows  for  their  pastime,  or 
in  sceptical  doctrines  for  their  edification.  For  this  latter 
purpose,  Ridicule  is  the  weapon  he  selects,  and  it  suits  him 
well.  This  was  not  the  age  of  deep  thoughts  ;  no  Due  de" 
Richelieu,  no  Prince  Conti,  no  Frederick  the  Great  would 
have  listened  to  such  :  only  sportful  contempt,  and  a  thin 
conversational  logic  will  avail.  There  may  be  wool-quilts, 
which  the  lath-sword  of  Harlequin  will  pierce,  when  the  club 
of  Hercules  has  rebounded  from  them  in  vain.  As  little 
was  this  an  age  for  high  virtues  ;  no  heroism,  in  any  form,  is 
required,  or  even  acknowledged ;  but  only,  in  all  forms,  a 
certain  bienseance.  To  this  rule  also  Voltaire  readily  con- 
forms ;  indeed,  he  finds  no  small  advantage  in  it.  For  a  lax 
public  morality  not  only  allows  him  the  indulgence  of  many 
a  little  private  vice,  and  brings  him  in  this  and  the  other 
windfall  of  menus  plaisirs,  but  opens  him  the  readiest  re- 
source in  many  enterprises  of  danger.  Of  all  men,  Voltaire 
has  the  least  disposition  to  increase  the  Army  of  Martyrs. 
No  testimony  will  he  seal  with  his  blood  ;  scarcely  any  will 
he  so  much  as  sign  with  ink.  His  obnoxious  doctrines,  as 
we  have  remarked,  he  publishes  under  a  thousand  conceal- 
ments ;  with  underplots,  and  wheels  within  wheels  ;  so  that 
his  whole  track  is  in  darkness,  only  his  works  see  the  light. 
No  Proteus  is  so  nimble,  or  assumes  so  many  shapes :  if,  by 
rare  chance,  caught  sleeping,  he  whisks  through  the  smallest 
hole,  and  is  out  of  sight,  while  the  noose  is  getting  ready. 
Let  his  judges  take  him  to  task,  he  will  shuffle  and  evade  ; 
if  directly  questioned,  he  will  even  lie.  In  regard  to  this  last 
point,  the  Marquis  de  Condorcet  has  set  up  a  defence  for 
him,  which  has  at  least  the  merit  of  being  frank  enough. 


VOLTAIRE. 


33 


'  The  necessity  of  lying  in  order  to  disavow  any  work,'  says  he, 
'is  an  extremity  equally  repugnant  to  conscience  and  nobleness  of 
character :  but  the  crime  lies  with  those  unjust  men,  who  render 
such  disavowal  necessary  to  the  safety  of  him  whom  they  force  to  it. 
If  you  have  made  a  crime  of  what  is  not  one ;  if,  by  absurd  or  by 
arbitrary  laws,  you  have  infringed  the  natural  right,  which  all  men 
have,  not  only  to  form  an  opinion,  but  to  render  it  public  ;  then  you 
deserve  to  lose  the  right  which  every  man  has  of  hearing^the  truth 
from  the  mouth  of  another ;  a  right,  which  is  the  sole  basis  of  that 
rigorous  obligation,  not  to  lie.  If  it  is  not  permitted  to  deceive,  the 
reason  is,  that  to  deceive  any  one,  is  to  do  him  a  wrong,  or  expose 
yourself  to  do  him  one;  but  a  wrong  supposes  a  right;  and  no  one 
has  the  right  of  seeking  to  secure  himself  the  means  of  committing 
an  injustice.' 1 

It  is  strange,  how  scientific  discoveries  do  maintain  them- 
selves :  here,  quite  in  other  hands,  and  in  an  altogether  dif- 
ferent dialect,  we  have  the  old  Catholic  doctrine,  if  it  ever 
was  more  than  a  Jesuitic  one,  1  that  faith  need  not  be  kept 
with  heretics.'  Truth,  it  appears,  is  too  precious  an  article 
for  our  enemies  ;  is  fit  only  for  friends,  for  those  who  will  pay 
us  if  we  tell  it  them.  It  may  be  observed,  however,  that 
granting  Condorcet's  premises,  this  doctrine  also  must  be 
granted,  as  indeed  is  usual  with  that  sharp-sighted  writer.  If 
the  doing  of  right  depends  on  the  receiving  of  it ;  if  our  fel- 
low-men, in  this  world,  are  not  persons,  but  mere  things,  that 
for  services  bestowed  will  return  services,  —  steam-engines 
that  will  manufacture  calico,  if  we  put  in  coals  and  water,  — 
then  doubtless,  the  calico  ceasing,  our  coals  and  water  may 
also  rationally  cease ;  the  questioner  threatening  to  injure  us 
for  the  truth,  we  may  rationally  tell  him  lies.  But  if,  on  the 
other  hand,  our  fellow-man  is  no  steam-engine,  but  a  man ; 
united  with  us,  and  with  all  men,  and  with  the  Maker  of  all 
men,  in  sacred,  mysterious,  indissoluble  bonds,  in  an  All- 
embracing  Love,  that  encircles  alike  the  seraph  and  the  glow- 
worm ;  then  will  our  duties  to  him  rest  on  quite  another 
basis  than  this  very  humble  one  of  quid  pro  quo  ;  and  the 


VOL.  II. 


l  Vie  de  Voltaire,  p.  32. 
3 


Si 


MISCELLANIES. 


Marquis  de  Condorcet's  conclusion  will  be  false  ;  and  might, 
in  its  practical  extensions,  be  infinitely  pernicious. 

Such  principles  and  habits,  too  lightly  adopted  by  Voltaire, 
acted,  as  it  seems  to  us,  with  hostile  effect  on  his  moral  na- 
ture, not  originally  of  the  noblest  sort,  but  which,  under  other 
influences,  might  have  attained  to  far  greater  nobleness.  As 
it  is,  we  see  in  him  simply  a  Man  of  the  World,  such  as  Paris 
and  the  eighteenth  century  produced  and  approved  of :  a  po- 
lite, attractive,  most  cultivated,  but  essentially  self-interested 
man ;  not  without  highly  amiable  qualities  ;  indeed,  with  a 
general  disposition  which  we  could  have  accepted  without 
disappointment  in  a  mere  Man  of  the  World,  but  must  find 
very  defective,  sometimes  altogether  out  of  place,  in  a  Poet 
and  Philosopher.  Above  this  character  of  a  Parisian  '  hon- 
ourable man,'  he  seldom  or  never  rises  ;  nay  sometimes  we 
find  him  hovering  on  the  very  lowest  boundaries  of  it,  or 
perhaps  even  fairly  below  it.  We  shall  nowise  accuse  him 
of  excessive  regard  for  money,  of  any  wish  to  shine  by  the 
influence  of  mere  wealth  :  let  those  commercial  speculations, 
including  even  the  victualling-contracts,  pass  for  laudable 
prudence,  for  love  of  independence,  and  of  the  power  to  do 
good.  But  what  are  we  to  make  of  that  hunting  after  pen- 
sions, and  even  after  mere  titles  ?  There  is  an  assiduity  dis- 
played here,  which  sometimes  almost  verges  towards  sneak- 
ing. Well  might  it  provoke  the  scorn  of  Alfieri ;  for  there  is 
nothing  better  than  the  spirit  of  '  a  French  plebeian  '  appar- 
ent in  it.  Much,  we  know,  very  much  should  be  allowed 
for  difference  of  national  manners,  which  in  general  mainly 
determine  the  meaning  of  such  things  :  nevertheless,  to  our 
insular  feelings,  that  famous  Trajan  est-il  content  ?  especially 
when  we  consider  who  the  Trajan  was,  will  always  remain 
an  unfortunate  saying.  The  more  so,  as  Trajan  himself 
turned  his  back  on  it,  without  answer  ;  declining,  indeed, 
through  life,  to  listen  to  the  voice  of  this  charmer,  or  disturb 
his  own  4  time  paisible,'  for  one  moment,  though  with  the  best 
philosopher  in  Nature.    Nay,  Pompadour  herself  was  ap- 


VOLTAIRE. 


35 


plied  to  ;  and  even  some  considerable  progress  made,  by  that 
underground  passage,  had  not  an  envious  hand  too  soon  and 
fatally  intervened.  D'Alembert  says,  there  are  two  things 
that  can  reach  the  top  of  a  pyramid,  the  eagle  and  the  rep- 
tile. Apparently,  Voltaire  wished  to  combine  both  methods ; 
and  he  had,  with  one  of  them,  but  indifferent  success. 

The  truth  is,  we  are  trying  Voltaire  by  too  high  a 'stand- 
ard ;  comparing  him  with  an  ideal,  which  he  himself  never 
strove  after,  perhaps  never  seriously  aimed  at.  He  is  no 
great  Man,  but  only  a  great  Persifleur  ;  a  man  for  whom  life, 
and  all  that  pertains  to  it,  has,  at  best,  but  a  despicable  mean- 
ing ;  who  meets  its  difficulties  not  with  earnest  force,  but  with 
gay  agility ;  and  is  found  always  at  the  top,  less  by  power  in 
swimming,  than  by  lightness  in  floating.  Take  him  in  his 
character,  forgetting  that  any  other  was  ever  ascribed  to  him, 
and  we  find  that  he  enacted  it  almost  to  perfection.  Never 
man  better  understood  the  whole  secret  of  Persiflage;  mean- 
ing thereby  not  only  the  external  faculty  of  polite  contempt, 
but  that  art  of  general  inward  contempt,  by  which  a  man  of 
this  sort  endeavours  to  subject  the  circumstances  of  his  Des- 
tiny to  his  Volition,  and  be,  what  is  the  instinctive  effort  of 
all  men,  though  in  the  midst  of  material  Necessity,  morally 
Free.  Voltaire's  latent  derision  is  as  light,  copious  and  all- 
pervading  as  the  derision  which  he  utters.  Nor  is  this  so 
simple  an  attainment  as  we  might  fancy  ;  a  certain  kind  and 
degree  of  Stoicism,  or  approach  to  Stoicism,  is  necessary  for 
the  completed  Persifleur ;  as  for  moral,  or  even  practical 
completion,  in  any  other  way.  The  most  indifferent-minded 
man  is  not  by  nature  indifferent  to  his  own  pain  and  pleasure : 
this  is  an  indifference  which  he  must  by  some  method  study 
to  acquire,  or  acquire  the  show  of;  and  which,  it  is  fair  to  say, 
Voltaire  manifests  in  a  rather  respectable  degree.  Without 
murmuring,  he  has  reconciled  himself  to  most  things  :  the 
human  lot,  in  this  lower  world,  seems  a  strange  business,  yet, 
on  the  whole,  with  more  of  the  farce  in  it  than  of  the  trag- 
edy ;  to  him  it  is  nowise  heart-rending,  than  this  Planet  of" 


3G 


MISCELLANIES. 


our.-  should  be  sent  sailing  through  Space,  like  a  miserable 
aimless  Ship-of- Fools,  and  he  himself  be  a  fool  among  the 
rest,  and  only  a  very  little  wiser  than  the)'.  He  does  not, 
like  Bolingbroke,  '  patronise  Providence,'  though  such  say- 
ings as  Si  Dieu  nexistait  pas,  il  faudra.it  Vinventer,  seem 
now  and  then  to  indicate  a  tendency  of  that  sort :  but,  at  all 
events,  he  never  openly  levies  war  against  Heaven;  well 
knowing  that  the  time  spent  in  frantic  malediction,  directed 
thither,  might  be  spent  otherwise  with  more  profit.  There  is, 
truly,  no  Werterism  in  him,  either  in  its  bad  or  its  good  sense. 
If  he  sees  no  unspeakable  majesty  in  heaven  and  earth, 
neither  does  he  see  any  unsufferable  horror  there.  His  view 
of  the  world  is  a  cool,  gently  scornful,  altogether  prosaic  one : 
his  sublimest  Apocalypse  of  Nature  lies  in  the  microscope 
and  telescope  ;  the  Earth  is  a  place  for  producing  corn ;  the 
Starry  Heavens  are  admirable  as  a  nautical  time-keeper. 
Yet.  like  a  prudent  man,  he  has  adjusted  himself  to  his  con- 
dition, such  as  it  is:  he  does  not  chaunt  any  Miserere  over 
human  life,  calculating  that  no  charitable  dole,  but  only  laugh- 
ter, would  be  the  reward  of  such  an  enterprise  ;  does  not 
hang  or  drown  himself,  clearly  understanding  that  death  of 
itself  will  soon  save  him  that  trouble.  Affliction,  it  is  true, 
has  not  for  him  any  precious  jewel  in  its  head  ;  on  the  con- 
trary, it  is  an  unmixed  nuisance  ;  yet,  happily,  not  one  to  be 
how  led  over,  so  much  as  one  to  be  speedily  removed  out  of 
sight  :  if  he  does  not  learn  from  it  Humility,  and  the  sublime 
lesson  of  Resignation,  neither  does  it  teach  him  hard-hearted? 
ni"  and  sickly  discontent;  but  he  bounds  lightly  over  it, 
Leal  ing  both  the  jewel  and  the  toad  at  a  safe  distance  behind 
him. 

Nor  was  Voltaire's  history  without  perplexities  enough  to 
keep  tlii—  principle  in  exercise  ;  to  try  whether  in  life,  as  in 
literature,  the  Hdiculum  were  really  better  than  the  acre. 
We  musl  own.  thai  on  no  occasion  does  it  altogether  fail  him; 
never  does  he  seem  perfectly  at  a  nonplus ;  no  adventure  is 
SO  hid- 'on-,  that  he  cannot,  iii  the  long-run,  find  some  means 


VOLTAIRE. 


37 


to  laugh  at  it,  and  forget  it.  Take,  for  instance,  that  last 
ill-omened  visit  of  his  to  Frederick  the  Great.  This  was, 
probably,  the  most  mortifying  incident  In  Voltaire's  whole 
life :  an  open  experiment,  in  the  sight  of  all  Europe,  to  as- 
certain whether  French  Philosophy  had  virtue  enough  in  it 
to  found  any  friendly  union,  in  such  circumstances,  even  be- 
tween its  great  master  and  his  most  illustrious  disciple  ;  and 
an  experiment  which  answered  in  the  negative.  As  was 
natural  enough ;  for  Vanity  is  of  a  divisive,  not  of  a  uniting 
nature  ;  and  between  the  King  of  Letters  and  the  King  of 
Armies  there  existed  no  other  tie.  They  should  have  kept 
up  an  interchange  of  flattery,  from  afar :  gravitating  towards 
one  another  like  celestial  luminaries,  if  they  reckoned  them- 
selves such  ;  yet  always  with  a  due  centrifugal  force  ;  for  if 
either  shot  madly  from  his  sphere,  nothing  but  collision,  and 
concussion,  and  mutual  recoil,  could  be  the  consequence.  On 
the  whole,  we  must  pity  Frederick,  environed  with  that  clus- 
ter of  Philosophers  :  doubtless  he  meant  rather  well ;  yet  the 
French  at  Rosbach,  with  guns  in  their  hands,  were  but  a 
small  matter,  compared  with  these  French  in  Sans-Souci. 
Maupertuis  sits  sullen,  monosyllabic;  gloomy  like  the  bear 
of  his  own  arctic  zone  :  Voltaire  is  the  mad  piper  that  will 
make  him  dance  to  tunes  and  amuse  the  people.  In  this 
royal  circle,  with  its  parasites  and  bashaws,  what  heats  and 
jealousies  must  there  not  have  been  ;  what  secret  heart- 
burnings, smooth-faced  malice,  plottings,  counter-plottings, 
and  laurel-water  pharmacy,  in  all  its  branches,  before  the 
ring  of  etiquette  fairly  burst  asunder,  and  the  establishment, 
so  to  speak,  exploded !  Yet  over  all  these  distressing  mat- 
ters Voltaire  has  thrown  a  soft  veil  of  gaiety ;  he  remembers 
neither  Dr.  Akakia,  nor  Dr.  Akakia's  patron,  with  any  animos- 
ity ;  but  merely  as  actors  in  the  grand  farce  of  life  along  with 
him,  a  new  scene  of  which  has  now  commenced,  quite  dis- 
placing the  other  from  the  stage.  The  arrest  at  Frankfort, 
indeed,  is  a  sour  morsel ;  but  this  too  he  swallows,  with  an 
effort.    Frederick,  as  we  are  given  to  understand,  had  these 


38 


MISCELLANIES. 


whims  by  kind  ;  was,  indeed,  a  wonderful  scion  from  such  a 
stock ;  for  what  could  equal  the  avarice,  malice  and  rabid 
enappishness  of  old  Frederick  William  the,  father  ? 

'  He  had  a  minister  at  the  Hague,  named  Luicius,'  says  the  wit : 
'  this  Luicius  was,  of  all  royal  ministers  extant,  the  worst  paid.  The 
poor  man,  with  a  view  to  warm  himself,  had  a  few  trees  cut  down, 
in  the  garden  of  Honslardik,  then  belonging  to  the  House  of  Prussia  ; 
immediately  thereafter  he  received  despatches  from  the  King  his 
master,  keeping  back  a  year  of  his  salary.  Luicius,  in  despair,  cut 
his  throat  with  the  only  razor  he  had  (avec  le  seul  rasoir  qu'il  etlt) ; 
an  old  lackey  came  to  his  assistance,  and  unfortunately  saved  his 
life.  At  an  after  period,  I  myself  saw  his  Excellency  at  the  Hague, 
ami  nave  him  an  alms  at  the  gate  of  that  Palace  called  La  Vieille 
(Jour,  which  belongs  to  the  King  of  Prussia,  where  this  unhappy 
Ambassador  had  lived  twelve  years.' 

With  the.  Roi-Philosoplte  himself  Voltaire,  in  a  little  while, 
recommences  correspondence;  and,  to  all  appearance,  pro- 
ceeds quietly  in  his  office  of  '  buckwasher,'  that  is,  of  verse- 
corrector  to  his  Majesty,  as  if  nothing  whatever  had  hap- 
pened. 

Again,  what  human  pen  can  describe  the  troubles  this 
unfortunate  philosopher  had  with  his  women?  A  gadding, 
feather-brained,  capricious,  old-coquettish,  embittered  and  em- 
bittering set  of  wantons  from  the  earliest  to  the  last !  Widow 
Denis,  for  example,  that  disobedient  Niece,  whom  he  rescued 
from  furnished  lodgings  and  spare  diet,  into  pomp  and  plenty, 
bow  did  she  pester  the  last  stage  of  his  existence,  for  twenty- 
four  years  long  !  Blind  to  the  peace  and  roses  of  Ferney  ; 
ever  hankering  and  fretting  after  Parisian  display;  not  with- 
out flirtation,  though  advanced  in  life;  losing  money  at  play, 
and  purloining  wherewith  to  make  it  good;  scolding  his  ser- 
vants, quarrelling  with  his  .secretaries,  so  that  the  too-indul- 
gent uncle  must  turn  off  his  beloved  Collini,  nay  almost  be 
run  through  the  body  by  him,  for  her  sake!  The  good  Wa<r- 
niere,  who  succeeded  this  fiery  Italian  in  the  secretaryship, 
and  loved  Voltaire  with  a  most  creditable  affection,  cannot, 
though  a  >iniple,  humble  and  philanthropic  man,  speak  of 


VOLTAIRE. 


30 


Madame  Denis  without  visible  overflowings  of  gall.  He 
openly  accuses  her  of  hastening  her  uncle's  death  by  her  im- 
portunate stratagems  to  keep  him  in  Paris,  where  was  her 
heaven.  Indeed  it  is  clear  that,  his  goods  and  chattels  once 
made  sure  of,  her  chief  care  was  that  so  fiery  a  patient  might 
die  soon  enough  ;  or,  at  best,  according  to  her  own  confession, 
f  how  she  was  to  get  him  buried.'  We  have  known  superan- 
nuated grooms,  nay  effete  saddle-horses,  regarded  with  m®re 
real  sympathy  in  their  home,  than  was  the  best  of  uncles  by 
the  worst  of  nieces.  Had  not  this  surprising  old  man  re- 
tained the  sharpest  judgment,  and  the  gayest,  easiest  temper, 
his  last  days  and  last  years  must  have  been  a  continued 
scene  of  violence  and  tribulation. 

Little  better,  worse  in  several  respects,  though  at  a  time 
when  he  could  better  endure  it,  was  the  far-famed  Marquise 
du  Chatelet.  Many  a  tempestuous  day  and  wakeful  night 
had  he  with  that  scientific  and  too-fascinating  shrew.  She 
speculated  in  mathematics  and  metaphysics ;  but  was  an 
adept  also  in  far,  very  far  different  acquirements.  Setting 
aside  its  whole  criminality,  which,  indeed,  perhaps  went  for 
little  there,  this  literary  amour  wears  but  a  mixed  aspect ; 
short  sun-gleams,  with  long  tropical  tornadoes ;  touches  of 
guitar-music,  soon  followed  by  Lisbon  earthquakes.  Mar- 
montel,  we  remember,  speaks  of  knives  being  used,  at  least 
brandished,  and  for  quite  other  purposes  than  carving. 
Madame  la  Marquise  was  no  saint,  in  any  sense  ;  but  rather 
a  Socrates'  spouse,  who  would  keep  patience,  and  the  whole 
philosophy  of  gaiety,  in  constant  practice.  Like  Queen 
Elizabeth,  if  she  had  the  talents  of  a  man,  she  had  more 
than  the  caprices  of  a  woman. 

We  shall  take  only  one  item,  and  that  a  small  one,  in  this 
mountain  of  misery  :  her  strange  habits  and  methods  of  loco- 
motion. She  is  perpetually  travelling :  a  peaceful  philoso- 
pher is  lugged  over  the  world,  to  Cirey,  to  Luneville,  to 
that  pied  a  terre  in  Paris ;  resistance  avails  not ;  here,  as 
in  so  many  other  cases,  il  faut  se  ranger.    Sometimes,  pre- 


40 


MISCELLANIES. 


cisely  on  the  eve  of  such  a  departure,  her  domestics,  ex- 
asperated  by  hunger  and  ill  usage,  will  strike  work,  in  a 
body ;  and  a  new  set  has  to  be  collected  at  an  hour's  warn- 
ing. Then  Madame  has  been  known  to  keep  the  postilions 
cracking  and  sacre-'mg  at  the  gate  from  dawn  till  dewy  eve, 
simply  because  she  was  playing  cards,  and  the  games  went 
against  her.  But  figure  a  lean  and  vivid-tempered  philoso- 
pher starting  from  Paris  at  last ;  under  cloud  of  night ; 
during  hard  frost ;  in  a  huge  lumbering  coach,  or  rather 
wagon,  compared  with  which,  indeed,  the  generality  of 
modern  wagons  were  a  luxurious  conveyance.  With  four 
starved,  and  perhaps  spavined  hacks,  he  slowly  sets  forth, 
'  under  a  mountain  of  bandboxes : '  at  his  side  sits  the  wan- 
dering virago;  in  front  of  him,  a  serving-maid,  with  ad- 
ditional bandboxes  '  et  divers  effets  de  sa  maitresse.'  At 
tlic  next  stage,  the  postilions  have  to  be  beat  up  ;  they  come 
out  swearing.  Cloaks  and  fur-pelisses  avail  little  against  the 
January  cold;  'time  and  hours'  are,  once  more,  the  only 
hope ;  but,  lo,  at  the  tenth  mile,  this  Tyburn-coach  breaks 
down!  One  many-voiced  discordant  wail  shrieks  through 
the  solitude,  making  night  hideous,  —  but  in  vain  ;  the  axle- 
tree  has  given  way,  the  vehicle  has  overset,  and  marchion- 
esses, chambermaids,  bandboxes  and  philosophers,  are  welter- 
ing in  inextricable  chaos. 

'  The  carriage  was  in  the  stage  next  Nangis,  about  half-way  to 
that  town,  when  the  hind  axletree  broke,  and  it  tumbled  on  the 
mail,  to  M.  df  Voltaire's  side  :  .Mad  ante  du  ChAtelet,  and  her  maid, 
tell  above  him,  with  all  their  bundles  and  bandboxes,  for  these  were 
not  tied  to  the  front,  but  only  piled  up  on  both  hands  of  the  maid; 
and  bo,  observing  the  laws  of  equilibrium  and  gravitation  of  bodies, 
they  rushed  towards  the  corner  where  M.  de  Voltaire  lay  squeezed 
together.  Under  so  many  burdens,  which  half  suffocated  him,  he 
kept  shouting  bitterly  (jinussiu'l  <lts  en's  tiirjus)  ;  but  it  was  impossible 
to  change  place  ;  all  ha«l  to  remain  as  it  was,  till  the  two  lackeys,  one 
of  whom  was  hurt  by  the  fall,  could  come  up,  with  the  postilions,  to 
flitenC  her  the  vehicle;  they  first  drew  out  all  the  luggage,  next 

the  women,  then  M.  de  Voltaire.  Nothing  could  be  got  out  except 
by  the  top,  that  is,  by  the  coauh-door,  which  now  opened  upwards  : 


VOLTAIRE. 


41 


one  of  the  lackeys  and'a  postilion  clambering  aloft,  and  fixing  them- 
selves on  the  body  of  the  vehicle,  drew  them  up,  as  from  a  well ; 
seizing  the  first  limb  that  came  to  hand,  whether  arm  or  leg ;  and 
then  passed  them  down  to  the  two  stationed  below,  who  set  them 
finally  on  the  ground.' 1 

What  would  Dr.  Kitchiner,  with  his  Traveller's  Oracle, 
have  said  to  all  this  ?  For  there  is  snow  on  the  ground : 
and  four  peasants  must  be  roused  from  a  village  half  h 
league  off,  before  that  accursed  vehicle  can  so  much  as  be 
lifted  from  its  beam-ends !  Vain  it  is  for  Longchamp,  far 
in  advance,  sheltered  in  a  hospitable  though  half-dismantled 
chateau,  to  pluck  pigeons  and  be  in  haste  to  roast  them :  they 
will  never,  never  be  eaten  to  supper,  scarcely  to  breakfast 
next  morning  !  —  Nor  is  it  now  only,  but  several  times,  that 
this  unhappy  axletree  plays  them  foul ;  nay  once,  beggared 
by  Madame's  gambling,  they  have  not  cash  to  pay  for 
mending  it,  and  the  smith,  though  they  are  in  keenest  flight,- 
almost  for  their  lives,  will  not  trust  them. 

We  imagine  that  these  are  trying  things  for  any  philoso- 
pher. Of  the  thousand  other  more  private  and  perennial 
grievances  ;  of  certain  discoveries  and  explanations,  espe- 
cially, which  it  still  seems  surprising  that  human  philosophy 
could  have  tolerated,  we  make  no  mention ;  indeed,  with 
regard  to  the  latter,  few  earthly  considerations  could  tempt 
a  Reviewer  of  sensibility  to  mention  them  in  this  place. 

The  Marquise  du  Chatelet,  and  her  husband,  have  been 
much  wondered  at  in  England :  the  calm  magnanimity  with 
which  M.  le  Marquis  conforms  to  the  custom  of  the  country, 
to  the  wishes  of  his  helpmate,  and  leaves  her,  he  himself 
meanwhile  fighting,  or  at  least  drilling,  for  his  King,  to 
range  over  Space,  in  quest  of  loves  and  lovers  ;  his  friendly 
discretion,  in  this  particular ;  no  less  so,  his  blithe  benignant 
gullibility,  the  instant  a  contretemps  de  famille  renders  his 
countenance  needful, — have  had  all  justice  done  them 
among  us.  His  lady  too  is  a  wonder ;  offers  no  mean 
l  Vol.  ii.  p.  166. 


42 


MISCELLANIES. 


study  to  psychologists  :  she  is  a  fair  experiment  to  try  how- 
far  that  Delicacy,  which  we  reckon  innate  in  females,  is  only 
incidental  and  the  product  of  fashion ;  how  far  a  woman,  not 
merely  immodest,  but  without  the  slightest  fig-leaf  of  com- 
mon decency  remaining,  with  the  whole  character,  in  short, 
of  a  male  debauchee,  may  still  have  any  moral  worth 
as  a  woman.  We  ourselves  have  wondered  a  little  over 
both  these  parties  ;  and  over  the  goal  to  which  so  strange 
a  '  progress  of  society '  might  be  tending.  But  still  more 
wonderful,  not  without  a  shade  of  the  sublime,  has  appeared 
to  us  the  cheerful  thraldom  of  this  maltreated  philosopher; 
and  with  what  exhaustless  patience,  not  being  wedded,  he 
endured  all  these  forced-marches,  whims,  irascibilities,  delin- 
quencies and  thousandfold  unreasons  ;  braving  '  the  battle  and 
the  breeze,'  on  that  wild  Bay  of  Biscay,  for  such  a  period. 
Fifteen  long  years,  and  was  not  mad,  or  a  suicide  at  the  end 
of  them  !  But  the  like  fate,  it  would  seem,  though  worthy 
D'Israeli  has  omitted  to  enumerate  it  in  his  Calamities  of 
Authors,  is  not  unknown  in  literature.  Pope  also  had  his 
Mrs.  Martha  Blount ;  and,  in  the  midst  of  that  warfare  with 
united  Duncedom,  his  daily  tale  of  Egyptian  bricks  to  bake. 
Let  us  pity  the  lot  of  genius,  in  this  sublunary  sphere  ! 

Every  one  knows  the  earthly  termination  of  Madame  la 
Marquise  ;  and  how,  by  a  strange,  almost  satirical  Neinesis, 
she  was  taken  in  her  own  nets,  and  her  worst  sin  became 
her  final  punishment.  To  no  purpose  was  the  unparalleled 
credulity  of  M.  le  Marquis ;  to  no  purpose,  the  amplest  toler- 
ation, and  even  helpful  knavery  of  M.  de  Voltaire  ;  '  les  as- 
siduites  de  M.  de  Saint-Lambert,'  and  the  unimaginable 
consultations  to  which  they  gave  rise  at  Cirey,  were  fright- 
fully parodied  in  the  end.  The  last  scene  was  at  Luneville, 
in  the  peaceable  court  of  King  Stanislaus. 

'  Seeing  that  the  aromatic  vinegar  did  no  good,  we  tried'  to  recover 
her  from  (lie  Midden  lethargy  by  rubbing  her  feet,  and  striking  in  the 
palms  of  her  hands;  but  it  was  of  no  use:  she  had  ceased  to  be. 
The  maid  was  Bent  off  to  .Madame  de  Boufflers'  apartment,  to  in- 


VOLTAIRE. 


43 


form  the  company  that  Madame  du  CMtelet  was  worse.  Instantly 
they  all  rose  from  the  supper-table  :  M.  du  Chatelet,  M.  de  Voltaire, 
and  the  other  guests,  rushed  into  the  room.  So  soon  as  they  under- 
stood the  truth,  there  was  a  deep  consternation ;  to  tears,  to  cries, 
succeeded  a  mournful  silence.  The  husband  was  led  away,  the 
other  individuals  went  out  successively,  expressing  the  keenest  sor- 
row. M.  de  Voltaire  and  M.  de  Saint-Lambert  remained  the  last  by 
the  bedside,  from  which  they  could  not  be  drawn  away.  At  length, 
the  former,  absorbed  in  deep  grief,  left  the  room,  and  with  difficulty 
reached  the  main  door  of  the  Castle,  not  knowing  whither  he  went. 
Arrived  there,  he  fell  down  at  the  foot  of  the  outer  stairs,  and  near 
the  box  of  a  sentry,  where  his  head  came  on  the  pavement.  His 
lackey,  who  was  following,  seeing  him  fall  and  struggle  on  the 
ground,  ran  forward  and  tried  to  lift  him.  At  this  moment,  M.  de 
Saint-Lambert,  retiring  by  the  same  way,  also  arrived ;  and  observing 
M.  de  Voltaire  in  that  situation,  hastened  to  assist  the  lackey.  No 
sooner  was  M.  de  Voltaire  on  his  feet,  than  opening  his  eyes,  dimmed 
with  tears,  and  recognising  M.  de  Saint-Lambert,  he  said  to  him,  with 
sobs  and  the  most  pathetic  accent :  "  Ah,  my  friend,  it  is  you  that 
have  killed  her  ! "  Then,  all  on  a  sudden,  as  if  he  were  starting 
from  a  deep  sleep,  he  exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  reproach  and  despair  : 
"Eh!  mon  Dieu  !  Monsieur,  de  quoi  vous  avisiez^vous  de  lui  jaire  un 
enfant  ?  "  They  parted  thereupon,  without  adding  a  single  word ; 
and  retired  to  their  several  apartments,  overwhelmed  and  almost 
annihilated  by  the  excess  of  their  sorrow.' 1 

Among  all  threnetical  discourses  on  record,  this  last, 
between  men  overwhelmed  and  almost  annihilated  by  the 
excess  of  their  sorrow,  has  probably  an  unexampled  char- 
acter. Some  days  afterwards,  the  first  paroxysm  of  '  reproach 
and  despair'  being  somewhat  assuaged,  the  sorrowing  wid- 
ower, not  the  glad  legal  one,  composed  this  quatrain : 

L  'wavers  a  perdu  la  sublime  Emilie. 
Elle  aima  les  plaisirs,  les  arts,  la  verite  : 
Les  dieux,  en  lui  donnani  leur  ame  et  leur  genie, 
N'avaient  garde  pour  eux  que  1 1  immortality, 

After  which,  reflecting,  perhaps,  that  with  this  sublime  Emilia, 
so  meritoriously  singular  in  loving  pleasure,  '  his  happiness 
had  been  chiefly  on  paper,'  he,  like  the  bereaved  Universe, 
consoled  himself,  and  went  on  his  way. 

l  Vol.  ii.  p.  250. 


44 


MISCELLANIES. 


Woman,  it  has  been  sufficiently  demonstrated,  was  given 
to  man  as  a  benefit,  and  for  mutual  support ;  a  precious 
ornament  and  staff  whereupon  to  lean  in  many  trying  situa- 
tions :  but  to  Voltaire  she  proved,  so  unlucky  was  he  in  this 
matter,  little  else  than  a  broken  reed,  which  only  ran  into  his 
hand.  We  confess  that,  looking  over  the  manifold  trials  of 
this  poor  philosopher  with  the  softer,  or  as  he  may  have 
reckoned  it,  the  harder  sex,  —  from  that  Dutchwoman  who 
published  his  juvenile  letters,  to  the  Niece  Denis  who  as 
good  as  killed  him  with  racketing,  —  we  see,  in  this  one 
province,  very  great  scope  for  almost  all  the  cardinal  virtues. 
And  to  these  internal  convulsions  add  an  incessant  series 
of  controversies  and  persecutions,  political,  religious,  literary, 
from  without ;  and  we  have  a  life  quite  rent  asunder,  horrent 
with  asperities  and  chasms,  where  even  a  stout  traveller  might 
have  faltered.  Over  all  which  Chamouni-Needles  and  Staub- 
bach-Falls  the  great  Persifleur  skims  along  in  this  his  little 
poetical  air-ship,  more  softly  than  if  he  travelled  the  smooth- 
est of  merely  prosaic  roads. 

Leaving  out  of  view  the  worth  or  worthlessness  of  such  a 
temper  of  mind,  we  are  bound,  in  all  seriousness,  to  say,  both 
that  it  seems  to  have  been  Voltaire's  highest  conception  of 
moral  excellence,  and  that  he  has  pursued  and  realised  it 
with  no  small  success.  One  great  praise  therefore  he  de- 
serves, —  that  of  unity  with  himself ;  that  of  having  an  aim, 
and  stedfastly  endeavouring  after  it,  nay,  as  we  have  found, 
of  attaining  it ;  for  his  ideal  Voltaire  seems,  to  an  unusual 
degree,  manifested,  made  practically  apparent  in  the  real 
one.  There  can  be  no  doubt  but  this  attainment  of  Persi- 
fleur, in  the  wide  sense  we  here  give  it,  was  of  all  others 
the  most  admired  and  sought  after  in  Voltaire's  age  and 
country  ;  nay,  in  our  own  age  and  country  we  have  still  in- 
numerable admirers  of  it,  and  unwearied  seekers  after  it,  on 
every  hand  of  us  :  nevertheless,  we  cannot  but  believe  that 
its  acme  is  past ;  that  the  best  sense  of  our  generation  has 
already  weighed  its  significance,  and  found  it  wanting.  Vol- 


VOLTAIRE. 


45 


taire  himself,  it  seems  to  us,  were  he  alive  at  this  day,  would 
find  other  tasks  than  that  of  mockery,  especially  of  mockery 
in  that  style :  it  is  not  by  Derision  and  Denial,  but  by  far 
deeper,  more  earnest,  diviner  means  that  aught  truly  great 
has  been  effected  for  mankind  ;  that  the  fabric  of  man's 
life  has  been  reared,  through  long  centuries,  to  its  present 
height.  If  we  admit  that  this  chief  of  Persifleurs  had  a  steady 
conscious  aim  in  life,  the  still  higher  praise  of  having  ha*l 
a  right  or  noble  aim  cannot  be  conceded  him  without  many 
limitations,  and  may,  plausibly  enough,  be  altogether  denied. 

At  the  same  time,  let  it  not  be  forgotten,  that  amid  all 
these  blighting  influences,  Voltaire  maintains  a  certain  in- 
destructible humanity  of  nature  ;  a  soul  never  deaf  to  the 
cry  of  wretchedness  ;  never  utterly  blind  to  the  light  of 
truth,  beauty,  goodness.  It  is  even,  in  some  measure,  poeti- 
cally interesting  to  observe  this  fine  contradiction  in  him : 
the  heart  acting  without  directions  from  the  head,  or  perhaps 
against  its  directions  ;  the  man  virtuous,  as  it  were,  in  spite 
of  himself.  For  at  all  events,  it  will  be  granted  that,  as  a 
private  man,  his  existence  was  beneficial,  not  hurtful,  to  his 
fellow-men :  the  Calases,  the  Sirvens,  and  so  many  orphans 
and  outcasts  whom  he  cherished  and  protected,  ought  to 
cover  a  multitude  of  sins.  It  was  his  own  sentiment,  and 
to  all  appearance  a  sincere  one  : 

J'aifait  wi  peu  de  Men ;  c'est  mon  meilleur  ouvrage. 

Perhaps  there  are  few  men,  with  such  principles  and  such 
temptations  as  his  were,  that  could  have  led  such  a  life ;  few 
that  could  have  done  his  work,  and  come  through  it  with 
cleaner  hands.  If  we  call  him  the  greatest  of  all  Persifleurs, 
let  us  add  that,  morally  speaking  also,  he  is  the  best :  if  he 
excels  all  men  in  universality,  sincerity,  polished  clearness 
of  Mockery,  he  perhaps  combines  with  it  as  much  worth  of 
heart  as,  in  any  man,  that  habit  can  admit  of. 

It  is  now  wellnigh  time  that  we  should  quit  this  part  of 
our  subject :  nevertheless,  in  seeking  to  form  some  picture 


46 


MISCELLANIES. 


of  Voltaire's  practical  life,  and  the  character,  outward  as  well 
as  inward,  of  his  appearance  in  society,  our  readers  will  not 
grudge  us  a  few  glances  at  the  last  and  most  striking  scene 
he  enacted  there.  To  our  view,  that  final  visit  to  Paris  has 
a  strange  half-frivolous,  half-fateful  aspect ;  there  is,  as  it 
were,  a  sort  of  dramatic  justice  in  this  catastrophe,  that  he, 
who  had  all  his  life  hungered  and  thirsted  after  public  fa- 
vour, should  at  length  die  by  excess  of  it ;  should  find  the 
door  of  his  Heaven-on-earth  unexpectedly  thrown  wide  open, 
and  enter  there,  only  to  be,  as  he  himself  said,  'smothered 
under  roses.'  Had  Paris  any  suitable  theogony  or  theology, 
as  Rome  and  Athens  had,  this  might  almost  be  reckoned,  as 
those  Ancients  accounted  of  death  by  lightning,  a  sacred 
death,  a  death  from  the  gods  ;  from  their  many-headed  god, 
Popularity.  In  the  benignant  quietude  of  Ferney,  Vol- 
taire had  lived  long,  and  as  his  friends  calculated,  might  still 
have  lived  long ;  but  a  series  of  trifling  causes  lures  him  to 
Paris,  and  in  three  months  he  is  no  more.  At  all  hours  of 
his  history,  he  might  have  said  with  Alexander:  "O  Athe- 
nians, w  hat  toil  do  I  undergo  to  please  you  ! "  and  the  last 
pleasure  his  Athenians  demand  of  him  is,  that  he  would  die 
for  them.  « 

Considered  with  reference  to  the  world  at  large,  this 
journey  is  farther  remarkable.  It  is  the  most  splendid 
triumph  of  that  nature  recorded  in  these  ages;  the  loudest 
and  showiest  homage  ever  paid  to  what  we  moderns  call 
Literature;  to  a  man  that  had  merely  thought,  and  pub- 
lished his  thoughts.  Much  false  tumult,  no  doubt,  there  was 
in  it  ;  yet  also  a  certain  deeper  significance.  It  is  interest- 
ing to  see  how  universal  and  eternal  in  man  is  love  of  wis- 
dom ;  how  the  highest  and  the  lowest,  how  supercilious 
princes,  and  rude  peasants,  and  all  men  must  alike  show  hon- 
our to  Wisdom,  or  the  appearance  of  Wisdom  ;  nay,  properly 
speaking,  can  show  honour  to  nothing  else.  For  it  is  not  in 
the  power  of  all  Xerxes'  hosts  to  bend  one  thought  of  our 
proud  heart:  these  'may  destroy  the  ease  of  Auaxarchus  ; 


VOLTAIRE. 


47 


himself  they  cannot  feach : '  only  to  spiritual  worth  can  the 
spirit  do  reverence ;  only  in  a  soul  deeper  and  better  than 
ours  can  we  see  any  heavenly  mystery,  and  in  humbling 
ourselves  feel  ourselves  exalted.  That  the  so  ebullient  en- 
thusiasm of  the  French  was  in  this  case  perfectly  well 
directed,  we  cannot  undertake  to  say :  yet  we  rejoice  to  see 
and  know  that  such  a  principle  exists  perennially  in  man's 
inmost  bosom ;  that  thei'e  is  no  heart  so  sunk  and  stupefied,  » 
none  so  withered  and  pampered,  but  the  felt  presence  of  a 
nobler  heart  will  inspire  it  and  lead  it  captive. 

Few  royal  progresses,  few  Roman  triumphs,  have  equalled 
this  long  triumph  of  Voltaire.  On  his  journey,  at  Bourg- 
en  Bresse,  '  he  was  recognised,'  says  Wagniere,  '  while  the 
'  horses  were  changing,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  whole 
'  town  crowded  about  the  carriage ;  so  that  he  was  forced 
'  to  lock  himself  for  some  time  in  a  room  of  the  inn.'  The 
Maitre-de-poste  ordered  his  postilion  to  yoke  better  horses,  . 
and  said  to  him  with  a  broad  oath :  "  Va  bon  train,  creve  mes 
chevaux,je  m'enf- — ;  tu  metiesM.de  Voltaire."  At  Dijon, 
there  were  persons  of  distinction  that  wished  even  to  dress 
themselves  as  waiter's,  that  they  might  serve  him  at  supper, 
and  see  him  by  this  stratagem. 

'  At  the  barrier  of  Paris,'  continues  Wagniere,  '  the  officers  asked 
if  we  had  nothing  with  us  contrary  to  the  King's  regulations  :  "  On 
my  word,  gentlemen,  Ma  foi,  Messieurs,"  replied  M.  de  Voltaire,  "  I 
believe  there  is  nothing  contraband  here  except  myself."  I  alighted 
from  the  carriage,  that  the  inspector  might  more  readily  examine  it. 
One  of  the  guards  said  to  his  comrade  :  C'est,  pardieu  !  M.  de  Voltaire. 
He  plucked  at  the  coat  of  the  person  who  was  searching,  and  repeated 
the  same  words,  looking  fixedly  at  me.  I  could  not  help  laughing  ; 
then  all  gazing  with  the  greatest  astonishment  mingled  with  respect, 
begged  M.  de  Voltaire  to  pass  on  whither  he  pleased.' 1 

Intelligence  soon  circulated  over  Paris ;  scarcely  could  the 
arrival  of  Kien-Long,  or  the  Grand  Lama  of  Thibet,  have 
excited  greater  ferment.    Poor  Longchamp,  demitted,  or 
1  Vol.  i.  p.  12-1. 


48 


MISCELLANIES. 


rather  dismissed  from  Voltaire's  service,  eight-and-twenty 
years  before,  and  now,  as  a  retired  map-dealer  (having 
resigned  in  favour  of  his  son),  living  quietly  '  dans  un  petit 
logement  a  part'  a  fine  smooth,  garrulous  old  man,  —  heard 
the  news  next  morning  in  his  remote  logement,  in  the  Estra- 
pade  ;  and  instantly  huddled  on  his  clothes,  though  he  had 
not  been  out  for  two  days,  to  go  and  see  what  truth  was  in  it. 

'  Several  persons  of  my  acquaintance,  whom  I  met,  told  me  that 
they  had  heard  the  same.  I  went  purposely  to  the  Cafe  Prorope, 
where  this  news  formed  the  subject  of  conversation  among  several 
politicians,  or  men  of  letters,  who  talked  of  it  with  warmth.  To 
assure  myself  still  farther,  I  walked  thence  towards  the  Quai  des 
Tkeatins,  where  he  had  alighted  the  night  before,  and,  as  was  said, 
taken  up  his  lodging  in  a  mansion  near  the  church.  Coming  out 
from  the  Rue  de  la  Seine,  I  saw  afar  off  a  great  number  of  people 
gathered  on  the  Quai,  not  far  from  the  Font-Royal.  Approaching 
nearer,  I  observed  that  this  crowd  was  collected  in  front  of  the  Mar- 
quis de  Villette's  Hotel,  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  de  Beaune.  I  in- 
quired what  the  matter  was.  The  people  answered  me,  that  M.  de 
Voltaire  was  in  that  house  ;  and  they  were  waiting  to  see  him  when 
he  came  out.  They  were  not  sure,  however,  whether  he  would 
come  out  that  day  ;  for  it  was  natural  to  think  that  an  old  man  of 
eighty-four  might  need  a  day  or  two  of  rest.  From  that  moment,  I 
no  longer  doubted  the  arrival  of  M.  de  Voltaire  in  Paris.' 1 

By  dint  of  address,  Longchamp,  in  process  of  time, 
contrived  to  see  his  old  master ;  had  an  interview  of  ten 
minutes ;  was  for  filling  at  his  feet ;  and  wept,  with  sad 
presentiments,  at  parting.  Ten  such  minutes  were  a  great 
matter ;  for  Voltaire  had  his  levees,  and  couchees,  more 
crowded  than  those  of  any  Emperor;  princes  and  peers 
thronged  his  antechamber;  and  when  he  went  abroad,  his 
carriage  whs  as  the  nucleus  of  a  comet,  whose  train  extended 
over  whole  districts  of  the  city.  He  himself,  says  Wagniere, 
expressed  dissatisfaction  at  much  of  this.  Nevertheless, 
there  were  some  plaudits  which,  as  he  confessed,  went  to  his 
heart.    Condorcet  mentions  that  once  a  person  in  the  crowd, 

1  Vol.  ii.  p.  353. 


VOLTAIRE. 


49 


inquiring  who  this  great  man  was,  a  poor  woman  answered, 
"  G'est  le  sauveur  des  Galas"  Of  a  quite  different  sort  was 
the  tribute  paid  him  by  a  quack,  in  the  Place  Louis  Quinze, 
haranguing  a  mixed  multitude  on  the  art  of  juggling  with 
cards  :  "  Here,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  "  is  a  trick  I  learned  at 
Ferney,  from  that  great  man  who  makes  so  much  noise 
among  you,  that  famous  M.  de  Voltaire,  the  master  of  us 
all !  "  In  fact,  mere  gaping  curiosity,  and  even  ridicule,  was"* 
abroad,  as  well  as  real  enthusiasm.  The  clergy  too  were 
recoiling  into  ominous  groups  ;  already  some  Jesuitic  drums 
ecclesiastic  had  beat  to  arms. 

Figuring  the  lean,  tottering,  lonely  old  man  in  the  midst 
of  all  this,  how  he  looks  into  it,  clear  and  alert,  though  no 
longer  strong  and  calm,  we  feel  drawn  towards  him  by  some 
tie  of  affection,  of  kindly  sympathy.  Longchamp  says,  he 
appeared  '  extremely  worn,  though  still  in  the  possession 
'  of  all  his  senses,  and  with  a  very  firm  voice.'  The  follow-' 
ing  little  sketch,  by  a  hostile  journalist  of  the  day,  has 
fixed  itself  deeply  with  us  : 

'M.  de  Voltaire  appeared  in  full  dress,  on  Tuesday,  for  the  first 
time  since  his  arrival  in  Paris.  He  had  on  a  red  coat  lined  with 
ermine ;  a  large  peruke,  in  the  fashion  of  Louis  XIV.,  Mack,  unpow- 
dered  ;  and  in  which  his  withered  visage  was  so  buried  that  you  saw 
only  his  two  eyes  shining  like  carbuncles.  His  head  was  surmounted 
by  a  square  red  cap  in  the  form  of  a  crown,  which  seemed  only  laid 
on.  He  had  in  his  hand  a  small  nibbed  cane  ;  and  the  public  of 
Paris,  not  accustomed  to  see  him  in  this  accoutrement,  laughed  a 
good  deal.  This  personage,  singular  in  all,  wishes  doubtless  to  have 
nothing  in  common  with  ordinary  men.' 1 

This  head,  —  this  wondrous  mici-ocosm  in  the  grande  per- 
ruque  a  la  Louis  XIV.,  —  was  so  soon  to  be  distenanted  of 
all  its  cunning  gifts  ;  these  eyes,  shining  like  carbuncles, 
were  so  soon  to  be  closed  in  long  night !  —  We  must  now 
give  the  coronation  ceremony,  of  which  the  reader  may  have 
heard  so  much :  borrowing  from  this  same  sceptical  hand, 
which,  however,  is  vouched  for  by  Wagniere ;  as,  indeed,  La 

1  Vol.  ii.  p.  466. 

VOL.  II.  4  , 


50 


MISCELLANIES. 


Harpe's  more  lieroical  narrative  of  that  occurrence  is  well 
known,  and  hardly  differs  from  the  following,  except  in  style  : 

'  On  Monday,  M.  de  Voltaire,  resolving  to  enjoy  the  triumph 
which  had  been  so  long  promised  him,  mounted  his  carriage,  that 
azure-coloured  vehicle,  bespangled  with  gold  stars,  which  a  wag 
called  the  chariot  of  the  empyrean ;  and  so  repaired  to  the  Acade'iuie 
Francaise,  which  that  day  had  a  special  meeting.  Twenty-two 
members  were  present.  None  of  the  prelates,  abbes  or  other  ecclesi- 
astics who  belong  to  it,  would  attend,  or  take  part  in  these  singular 
deliberations.  The  sole  exceptions  were  the  Abbe's  de  Boismont  and 
Millot ;  the  one  a  court  rake-hell  (roue),  with  nothing  but  the  guise 
of  his  profession;  the  other  a  varlet  (cuistre),  having  no  favour  to 
look  for,  either  from  the  Court  or  the  Church. 

'  The  Acade'mie  went  out  to  meet  M.  de  Voltaire :  he  was  led  to 
the  Director's  seat,  which  that  office-bearer  and  the  meeting  invited 
him  to  accept.  His  portrait  had  been  hung  up  above  it.  The  com- 
pany, without  drawing  lots,  as  is  the  custom,  proceeded  to  work,  and 
named  him,  by  acclamation,  Director  for  the  April  quarter.  The  old 
man,  once  set  a-going,  was  about  to  talk  a  great  deal ;  but  they  told 
him,  that  they  valued  his  health  too  much  to  hear  him,  —  that  they 
would  reduce  him  to  silence.  M.  d'Alembert  accordingly  occupied 
the  session,  by  reading  his  Eloge  de  Desprdaux,  which  had  already 
been  communiated  on  a  public  occasion,  and  where  he  had  inserted 
various  flattering  things  for  the  present  visitor. 

'  M.  de  Voltaire  then  signified  a  wish  to  visit  the  Secretary  of  the 
Acade'mie,  whose  apartments  are  above.  With  this  gentleman  he 
stayed  some  time ;  and  at  last  set  out  for  the  Comedie  Francaise. 
The  court  of  the  Louvre,  vast  as  it  is,  was  full  of  people  waiting  for 
him.  So  soon  as  his  notable  vehicle  came  in  sight,  the  cry  arose, 
Le  voila  1  The  Savoyards,  the  apple-women,  all  the  rabble  of  the 
quarter  had  assembled  there ;  and  the  acclamations,  Vive  Voltaire ! 
resounded  as  if  they  would  never  end.  The  Marquis  de  Villette, 
who  had  arrived  before,  came  to  hand  him  out  of  his  carriage,  where 
the  Frocureur  Clos  was  seated  beside  him :  both  these  gave  him 
their  arms,  and  could  scarcely  extricate  him  from  the  press.  On  his 
entering  the  playhouse,  a  crowd  of  more  elegance,  and  seized  witli 
true  enthusiasm  for  genius,  surrounded  him :  the  ladies,  above  all, 
threw  themselves  in  his  way,  and  stopped  it,  the  better  to  look  at 
him ;  some  were  seen  squeezing  forward  to  touch  his  clothes ;  somo 
plucking  hair  from  his  fur.  M.  le  Due  de  Chartres,1  not  caring  to 
advance  too  near,  showed,  though  at  a  distance,  no  less  curiosity  than 
others. 

i  Afterwards  Egalitd. 


VOLTAIRE. 


51 


'  The  saint,  or  rather*  the  god,  of  the  evening,  was  to  occupy  the 
box  belonging  to  the  Gentlemen  of  the  Bedchamber,1  opposite  that 
of  the  Comte  d'Artois.  Madame  Denis  and  Madame  de  Villette 
were  already  there  ;  and  the  pit  was  in  convulsions  of  joy,  awaiting 
the  moment  when  the  poet  should  appear.  There  was  no  end  till  he 
placed  himself  on  the  front  seat,  beside  the  ladies.  Then  rose  a  cry  : 
La  Couronne !  and  Brizard,  the  actor,  came  and  put  the  garland  on 
his  head.  "  Ah,  Heaven  !  will  you  kill  me  then  ?  (Ah,  Dieu  !  vous 
voulez  done  me  /aire  mourirl)"  cried  M.  de  Voltaire,  weeping  with, 
joy,  and  resisting  this  honour.  He  took  the  crown  in  his  hand,  and 
presented  it  to  Belle-et-Bonne : 2  she  withstood ;  and  the  Prince  de 
Beauvau,  seizing  the  laurel,  replaced  it  on  the  head  of  our  Sophocles, 
who  could  refuse  no  longer. 

'  The  piece  (Irene)  was  played,  and  with  more  applause  than  usual, 
though  scarcely  with  enough  to  correspond  to  this  triumph  of  its 
author.  Meanwhile  the  players  were  in  straits  as  to  what  they 
should  do ;  and  during  their  deliberations  the  tragedy  ended  ;  the 
curtain  fell,  and  the  tumult  of  the  people  was  extreme,  till  it  rose 
again,  disclosing  a  show  like  that  of  the  Centenaire.  M.  de  Voltaire's 
bust,  which  had  been  placed  shortly  before  in  the  foyer  (greenroom) 
of  the  Comedie  Francaise,  had  been  brought  upon  the  stage,  and 
elevated  on  a  pedestal ;  the  whole  body  of  comedians  stood  round  it 
in  a  semicircle,  with  palms  and  garlands  in  their  hands ;  there  was  a 
crown  already  on  the  bust.  The  pealing  of  musical  flourishes,  of 
drums,  of  trumpets,  had  announced  the  ceremony ;  and  Madame 
Vestris  held  in  her  hand  a  paper,  which  was  soon  understood  to  con- 
tain verses,  lately  composed  by  the  Marquis  de  Saint-Marc.  She 
recited  them  with  an  emphasis  proportioned  to  the  extravagance  of 
the  scene.    They  ran  as  follows  : 

Aux  yeux  de  Paris  enchante, 
Reqois  en  ce  jour  im  hommage, 
Que  confirmera  d'dge  en  age 
La  severe  posterite  ! 

Non,  tu    as  pas  besoin  d1  atteindre  aunoir  rivage 
Pour  jouir  des  honneurs  de  V  immortalite  ! 

Voltaire,  regois  la  couronne 

Que  Von  vient  de  te  presenter  ; 

11  est  beau  de  la  meriter, 

Quand  e'est  la  France  qui  la  donne  !s  1 

1  He  himself,  as  is  perhaps  too  well  known,  was  one. 

2  The  Marquise  de  Villette,  a  foster-child  of  his. 

3  As  Dryden  said  of  Swift,  so  may  we  say:  Our  cousin  Saint-Marc  has 
no  turn  for  poetry. 


52 


MISCELLANIES. 


This  was  encored  :  the  actress  recited  it  again.  Xext,  each  of  them 
■went  forward  and  laid  his  garland  round  the  bust.  Mademoiselle 
Fanier,  in  a  fanatical  ecstasy,  kissed  it,  and  all  the  others  imitated 
her. 

'  This  long  ceremony,  accompanied  with  infinite  vivats,  being  over, 
the  curtain  again  dropped  :  and  when  it  rose  for  Nanine,  one  of  M. 
de  Voltaire's  comedies,  his  bust  was  seen  on  the  right-hand  side  of 
the  stage,  where  it  remained  during  the  whole  play. 

'  M.  le  Comte  d'Artois  did  not  choose  to  show  himself  too  openly ; 
but  being  informed,  according  to  his  orders,  as  soon  as  M.  de  Vol- 
taire appeared  in  the  theatre,  he  had  gone  thither  incognito ;  and  it 
is  thought  that  the  old  man,  once  when  he  went  out  for  a  moment, 
had  the  honour  of  a  short  interview  with  his  Royal  Highness. 

'Nanine  finished,  comes  a  new  hurlyburly  ;  a  new  trial  for  the 
modesty  of  our  philosopher  !  He  had  got  into  his  carriage,  but  the 
people  would  not  let  him  go ;  they  threw  themselves  on  the  horses, 
they  kissed  them  :  some  young  poets  even  cried  to  unyoke  these 
animals,  and  draw  the  modern  Apollo  home  with  their  own  arms ; 
Unhappily,  there  were  not  enthusiasts  enough  to  volunteer  this  ser- 
vice, and  he  at  last  got  leave  to  depart,  not  without  vivats,  which  he 
may  have  heard  on  the  Pont-Royal,  and  even  in  his  own  house.  .  .  . 

'  M.  de  Voltaire,  on  reaching  home,  wept  anew ;  and  modestly 
protested  that  if  he  had  known  the  people  were  to  play  so  many 
follies,  he  would  not  have  gone.' 

On  all  these  wonderful  proceedings  we  shall  leave  our 
readers  to  their  own  reflections  ;  remarking  only,  that  this 
happened  on  the  30th  of  March  (1778),  and  that  on  the 
30th  of  May,  about  the  same  hour,  the  object  of  such  extraor- 
dinary adulation  was  in  the  article  of  death ;  the  hearse 
already  prepared  to  receive  his  remains,  for  which  even  a 
grave  had  to  be  stolen.  '  He  expired,'  says  Wagniere, 
'about  a  quarter  past  eleven  at  night,  with  the  most  perfect 
'tranquillity,  after  having  suffered  the  cruellest  pains,  in 
'  consequence  of  those  fatal  drugs,  which  his  own  impru- 
'  dence,  and  especially  that  of  the  persons  who  should  have 
'  looked  to  it,  made  him  swallow.  Ten  minutes  before  his 
'  last  breath,  he  took  the  hand  of  Morand,  his  valet-de- 
'chambiv,  who  was  watching  by  him;  pressed  it,  and  said: 
' "  Adieu,  mon  clter  Morand,  je  me  meurs,  Adieu,  my  dear 


VOLTAIRE. 


53 


*  Morand,  I  am  gone."    These  are  the  last  words  uttered  by 

•  M.  de  Voltaire.' 1 

We  have  still  to  consider  this  man  in  his  specially  intel- 
lectual capacity  ;  which,  as  with  every  man  of  letters,  is  to 
be  regarded  as  the  clearest,  and,  to  all  practical  intents,  the 
most  important  aspect  of  him.  Voltaire's  intellectual  en- 
dowment and  acquirement,  his  talent  or  genius  as  a  literary^ 

1  On  this  sickness  of  Voltaire,  and  his  death-bed  deportment,  many 
foolish  books  have  been  written;  concerning  which  it  is  not  necessary  to 
say  anything.  The  conduct  of  the  Parisian  clergy,  on  that  occasion, 
seems  totally  unworthy  of  their  cloth  ;  nor  was  their  reward,  so  far  as 
concerns  these  individuals,  inappropriate:  that  of  finding  themselves  once 
more  bilked,  once  more  persifles  by  that  strange  old  man,  in  his  last  de- 
crepitude, who,  in  his  strength,  had  wrought  them  and  others  so  many 
griefs.  Surely  the  parting  agonies  of  a  fellow  mortal,  when  the  spirit  of 
our  brother,  rapt  in  the  whirlwinds  and  thick  ghastly  vapours  of  death, 
clutches  blindly  for  help,  and  no  help  is  there,  are  not  the  scenes  where  a 
wise  faith  would  seek  to  exult,  when  it  can  no  longer  hope  to  alleviate ! 
For  the  rest,  to  touch  farther  on  those  their  idle  tales  of  dying  horrors,  re- 
morse and  the  like;  to  write  of  such,  to  believe  them,  or  disbelieve  them, 
or  in  anywise  discuss  them,  were  but  a  continuation  of  the  same  inepti- 
tude. He  who,  after  the  imperturbable  exit  of  so  many  Cartouches  and 
Thurtells,  in  every  age  of  the  world,  can  continue  to  regard  the  manner 
of  a  man's  death  as  a  test  of  his  religious  orthodoxy,  may  boast  himself 
impregnable  to  merely  terrestrial  logic.  Voltaire  had  enough  of  suffering, 
and  of  mean  enough  suffering,  to  encounter,  without  any  addition  from 
theological  despair.  His  last  interview  with  the  clergy,  who  had  been 
sent  for  by  his  friends,  that  the  rites  of  burial  might  not  be  denied  him,  is 
thus  described  by  Wagniere,  as  it  has  been  by  all  other  credible  reporters 
of  it: 

'  Two  days  before  that  mournful  death,  M.  1'Abbe  Mignot,  his  nephew, 
'  went  to  seek  the  Cure  of  Saint-Sulpice  and  the  Abbe  Guatier,  and 
'brought  them  into  his  uncle's  sick-room;  who,  being  informed  that  the 
'  Abbe  Guatier  was  there,  "  Ah,  well!  "  said  he,  "give  him  my  compli- 
'  ments  and  my  thanks.''  The  Abbe  spoke  some  words  to  him,  exhorting 
'  him  to  patience.  The  Curt5  of  Saint-Sulpice  then  came  forward,  having 
'  announced  himself,  and  asked  of  M.  de  Voltaire,  elevating  his  voice,  if  he 
'acknowledged  the  divinity  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ?  The  sick  man 
'  pushed  one  of  his  hands  against  the  Curb's  calotte  (coif),  shoving  him 
'  back,  and  cried,  turning  abruptly  to  the  other  side,  "  Let  me  die  in 
'peace  (Laissez-moi  mourir  en  paix)\"  The  Cure"  seemingly  considered 
1  his  person  soiled,  and  his  coif  dishonoured,  by  the  touch  of  a  philosopher. 
'  He  made  the  sicknurse  give  him  a  little  brushing,  and  then  went  out 
'  with  the  Abbd  Guatier.'    Vol.  i.  p.  161. 


54 


MISCELLANIES. 


man,  lies  opened  to  us  in  a  series  of  Writings,  unexampled, 
as  we  believe,  in  two  respects,  —  their  extent,  and  their  di- 
versity. Perhaps  there  is  no  writer,  not  a  mere  compiler, 
but  writing  from  his  own  invention  or  elaboration,  who  has 
left  so  many  volumes  behind  him  ;  and  if  to  the  merely 
arithmetical,  we  add  a  critical  estimate,  the  singularity  is  still 
greater ;  for  these  volumes  are  not  written  without  an  ap- 
pearance of  due  care  and  preparation ;  perhaps  there  is  not 
one  altogether  feeble  and  confused  treatise,  nay  one  feeble 
and  confused  sentence,  to  be  found  in  them.  As  to  variety, 
again,  they  range  nearly  over  all  human  subjects ;  from 
Theology  down  to  Domestic  Economy  ;  from  the  Familiar 
Letter  to  the  Political  History  ;  from  the  Pasquinade  to  the 
Epic  Poem.  Some  strange  gift,  or  union  of  gifts,  must 
have  been  at  work  here ;  for  the  result  is,  at  least,  in  the 
highest  degree  uncommon,  and  to  be  wondered  at,  if  not  to 
be  admired. 

If,  through  all  this  many-coloured  versatility,  we  try  to 
decipher  the  essential,  distinctive  features  of  Voltaire's  intel- 
lect, it  seems  to  us  that  we  find  there  a  counterpart  to  our 
theory  of  his  moral  character ;  as,  indeed,  if  that  theory  was 
accurate,  we  must  do  :  for  the  thinking  and  the  moral  nature, 
distinguished  by  the  necessities  of  speech,  have  no  such  dis- 
tinction in  themselves ;  but,  rightly  examined,  exhibit  in 
every  case  the  strictest  sympathy  and  correspondence,  are, 
indeed,  but  different  phases  of  the  same  indissoluble  unity,  — 
a  living  mind.  In  life,  Voltaire  was  found  to  be  without 
good  claim  to  the  title  of  philosopher  ;  and  now,  in  literature, 
and  for  similar  reasons,  we  find  in  him  the  same  deficiencies. 
Here  too  it  is  not  greatness,  but  the  very  extreme  of  expert- 
ness,  that  we  recognise  ;  not  strength,  so  much  as  agility,  not 
depth,  but  superficial  extent.  That  truly  surprising  ability 
seems  rather  the  unparalleled  combination  of  many  common 
talents,  than  the  exercise  of  any  finer  or  higher  one  :  for 
here  too  the  want  of  earnestness,  of  intense  continuance,  is 
fatal  to  him.    He  has  the  eye  of  a  lynx  ;  sees  deeper,  at 


VOLTAIRE. 


55 


the  first  glance,  than  any  other  man  ;  but  no  second  glance 
is  given.  Thus  Truth,  which  to  the  philosopher,  has  from 
of  old  been  said  to  live  in  a  well,  remains  for  the  most 
part  hidden  from  him  ;  we  may  say  forever  hidden,  if  we 
take  the  highest,  and  only  philosophical  species  of  Truth ; 
for  this  does  not  reveal  itself  to  any  mortal,  without  quite 
another  sort  of  meditation  than  Voltaire  ever  seems  to  have 
bestowed  on  it.  In  fact,  his  deductions  are  uniformly  of  $, 
forensic,  argumentative,  immediately  practical  nature  ;  often 
true,  we  will  admit,  so  far  as  they  go ;  but  not  the  whole 
truth  ;  and  false,  when  taken  for  the  whole.  In  regard  to 
feeling,  it  is  the  same  with  him :  he  is,  in  general,  humane, 
mildly  affectionate,  not  without  touches  of  nobleness  ;  but 
light,  fitful,  discontinuous  ;  '  a  smart  freethinker,  all  things 
in  an  hour.'  He  is  no  Poet  and  Philosopher,  but  a  popular 
sweet  Singer  and  Haranguer :  in  all  senses,  and  in  all  styles, 
a  Goncionator,  which,  for  the  most  part,  will  turn  out  to  be 
an  altogether  different  character.  It  is  true,  in  this  last 
province  he  stands  unrivalled ;  for  such  an  audience,  the 
most  fit  and  perfectly  persuasive  of  all  preachers  :  but  in 
many  far  higher  provinces,  he  is  neither  perfect  nor  un- 
rivalled ;  has  been  often  surpassed ;  was  surpassed  even  in 
his  own  age  and  nation.  For  a  decisive,  thorough-going,  in 
any  measure  gigantic  force  of  thought,  he  is  far  inferior  to 
Diderot :  with  all  the  liveliness  he  has  not  the  soft  elegance, 
with  more  than  the  wit  he  has  but  a  small  portion  of  the 
wisdom,  that  belonged  to  Fontenelle  :  as  in  real  sensibility, 
so  in  the  delineation  of  it,  in  pathos,  loftiness  and  earnest 
eloquence,  he  cannot,  making  all  fair  abatements,  and  there 
are  many,  be  compared  with  Rousseau. 

Doubtless,  an  astonishing  fertility,  quickness,  address  ;  an 
openness  also,  and  universal  susceptibility  of  mind,  must 
have  belonged  to  him.  As  little  can  we  deny  that  he  man- 
ifests an  assiduous  perseverance,  a  capability  of  long-con- 
tinued exertion,  strange  in  so  volatile  a  man  ;  and  consum- 
mate skill  in  husbanding  and  wisely  directing  his  exertion. 


56 


MISCELLANIES. 


The  very  knowledge  he  had  amassed,  granting,  which  is  but 
partly  true,  that  it  was  superficial  remembered  knowledge, 
might  have  distinguished  him  as  a  mere  Dutch  commentator. 
From  Newton's  Principia  to  the  SJiaster  and  Vedam,  noth- 
ing has  escaped  him  :  he  has  glanced  into  all  literatures  and 
all  sciences  ;  nay  studied  in  them,  for  he  can  speak  a  ra- 
tional word  on  all.  It  is  known,  for  instance,  that  he  under- 
stood Newton  when  no  other  man  in  France  understood  him  : 
indeed,  his  countrymen  may  call  Voltaire  their  discoverer  of 
intellectual  England  ;  —  a  discovery,  it  is  true,  rather  of  the 
Curtis  than  of  the  Columbus  sort,  yet  one  which  in  his  day 
still  remained  to  be  made.  Nay  from  all  sides  he  brings 
new  light  into  his  country  :  now,  for  the  first  time,  to  the 
upturned  wondering  eyes  of  Frenchmen  in  general,  does  it 
become  clear  that  Thought  has  actually  a  kind  of  existence 
in  other  kingdoms  ;  that  some  glimmerings  of  civilisation 
had  dawned  here  and  there  on  the  human  species,  prior  to 
the  Steele  de  Louis  Quatorze.  Of  Voltaire's  acquaintance 
with  History,  at  least  with  what  he  called  History,  be  it  civil, 
religious,  or  literary  ;  of  his  innumerable,  indescribable  col- 
lection of  facts,  gathered  from  all  sources,  —  from  European 
Chronicles  and  State  Papers,  from  eastern  Zends  and  Jewish 
Talmuds,  we  need  not  remind  any  reader.  It  has  been  ob- 
jected that  his  information  was  often  borrowed  at  second- 
hand ;  that  he  had  his  plodders  and  pioneers,  whom,  as  liv- 
ing dictionaries,  Ik;  skilfully  consulted  in  time  of  need.  This 
also  seems  to  be  partly  true,  but  deducts  little  from  our  esti- 
mate of  him  :  for  the  skill  so  to  borrow  is  even  rarer  than 
the  power  to  lend.  Voltaire's  knowledge  is  not  a  mere 
show-room  of  curiosities,  but  truly  a  museum  for  purjioses  of 
teaching;  every  object  is  in  its  place,  and  there  for  its  uses: 
nowhere  do  we  find  confusion  or  vain  display;  everywhere 
intention,  instructiveness  and  the  clearest  order. 

Perhaps  it  is  this  very  power  of  Order,  of  rapid  per- 
spicuous  Arrangement,  that  lies  at  the  root  of  Voltaire's  best 
gifts;  or  rather,  we  should  say,  it  is  thai  keen,  accurate  in- 


VOLTAIRE. 


57 


tellectual  vision,  from  which,  to  a  mind  of  any  intensity,  Order 
naturally  arises.  The  clear  quick  vision,  and  the  methodic 
arrangement  which  springs  from  it,  are  looked  upon  as  pe- 
culiarly French  qualities  ;  and  Voltaire,  at  all  times,  mani- 
fests them  in  a  more  than  French  degree.  Let  him  but  cast 
his  eye  over  any  subject,  in  a  moment  he  sees,  though  indeed 
only  to  a  short  depth,  yet  with  instinctive  decision,  where  the 
main  bearings  of  it  for  that  short  depth  lie ;  what  is,  or  ap-* 
pears  to  be,  its  logical  coherence  ;  how  causes  connect  them 
selves  with  effects  ;  how  the  whole  is  to  be  seized,  and  in 
lucid  sequence  represented  to  his  own  or  to  other  minds. 
In  this  respect,  moreover,  it  is  happy  for  him  that,  below 
the  short  depth  alluded  to,  his  view  does  not  properly  grow 
dim,  but  altogether  terminates  :  thus  there  is  nothing  farther- 
to  occasion  him  misgivings  ;  has  he  not  already  sounded  into 
that  basis  of  bottomless  Darkness  on  which  all  things  firmly 
rest  ?  What  lies  below  is  delusion,  imagination,  some  form- 
of  Superstition  or  Folly ;  which  he,  nothing  doubting,  alto- 
gether casts  away.  Accordingly,  he  is  the  most  intelligible 
of  writers ;  everywhere  transparent  at  a  glance.  There 
is  no  delineation  or  disquisition  of  his,  that  has  not  its 
whole  purport  written  on  its  forehead ;  all  is  precise,  all  is 
rightly  adjusted  ;  that  keen  spirit  of  Order  shows  itself  in 
the  whole,  and  in  every  line  of  the  whole. 

If  we  say  that  this  power  of  Arrangement,  as  applied  both 
to  the  acquisition  and  to  the  communication  of  ideas,  is  Vol- 
taire's most  serviceable  faculty  in  all  his  enterprises,  we  say 
nothing  singular  :  for  take  the  word  in  its  largest  acceptation, 
and  it  comprehends  the  whole  office  of  Understanding,  logi- 
cally so  called ;  is  the  means  whereby  man  accomplishes 
whatever,  in  the  way  of  outward  force,  has  been  made  pos- 
sible for  him  ;  conquers  all  practical  obstacles,  and  rises  to 
be  the  '  king  of  this  lower  world.'  It  is  the  organ  of  all  that 
Knowledge  which  can  properly  be  reckoned  synonymous  with 
Power ;  for  hereby  man  strikes  with  wise  aim,  into  the  infi- 
nite agencies  of  Nature,  and  multiplies  his  own  small  strength 


58 


MISCELLANIES. 


to  unlimited  degrees.  It  has  been  said  also  that  man  may 
rise  to  be  the  '  god  of  this  lower  world  ; '  but  that  is  a  far 
loftier  height,,  not  attainable  by  such  power-knowledge,  but 
by  quite  another  sort,  for  which  Voltaire  in  particular  shows 
hardly  any  aptitude. 

In  truth,  readily  as  we  have  recognised  his  spirit  of 
Method,  with  its  many  uses,  we  are  far  from  ascribing  to 
him  any  perceptible  portion  of  that  greatest  praise  in  think- 
ing, or  in  writing,  the  praise  of  philosophic,  still  less  of 
poetic  Method  ;  which,  especially  the  latter,  must  be  the 
fruit  of  deep  feeling  as  well  as  of  clear  vision,  —  of  genius 
as  well  as  talent ;  and  is  much  more  likely  to  be  found  in 
the  compositions  of  a  Hooker  or  a  Shakspeare  than  of  a 
Voltaire.  The  Method  discernible  in  Voltaire,  and  this  on 
all  subjects  whatever,  is  a  purely  business  Method.  The 
order  that  arises  from  it  is  not  Beauty,  but,  at  best,  Regu- 
larity. His  objects  do  not  lie  round  him  in  pictorial,  not 
always  in  scientific  grouping ;  but  rather  in  commodious 
rows,  where  each  may  be  seen  and  come  at,  like  goods  in 
a  well-kept  warehouse.  We  might  say,  there  is  not  the 
deep  natural  symmetry  of  a  forest  oak,  but  the  simple  ar- 
tificial symmetry  of  a  parlour  chandelier.  Compare,  for 
example,  the  plan  of  the  Henriade  to  that  of  our  so  bar- 
barous Hamlet.  The  plan  of  the  former  is  a  geometrical 
diagram  by  Fermat ;  that  of  the  latter  a  cartoon  by  Ra- 
phael. The  Henriade,  as  we  see  it  completed,  is  a  polished 
square-built  Tuileries :  Hamlet  is  a  mysterious  star-paved 
Valhalla  and  dwelling  of  the  gods. 

Nevertheless,  Voltaire's  style  of  Method  is,  as  we  have 
said,  a  business  one ;  and  for  his  purposes  more  available 
than  any  other.  It  carries  him  swiftly  through  his  work, 
and  carries  his  reader  swiftly  through  it ;  there  is  a  prompt 
intelligence  between  the  two  ;  the  whole  meaning  is  com- 
municated clearly,  and  comprehended  without  effort.  From 
this  also  it  may  follow,  that  Voltaire  will  please  the  young 
more  than  lie  docs  the  old;  that  the  first  perusal  of  him  will 


VOLTAIRE. 


59 


please  better  than  the  second,  if  indeed  any  second  be  thought 
necessary.  But  what  merit  (and  it  is  considerable)  the  pleas- 
ure and  profit  of  this  first  perusal  presupposes,  must  be 
honestly  allowed  him.  Herein,  it  seems  to  us,  lies  the  grand 
quality  in  all  his  performances.  These  Histories  of  his,  for  in- 
stance, are  felt,  in  spite  of  their  sparkling  rapidity,  and  know- 
ing air  of  philosophic  insight,  to  be  among  the  shallowest  of 
all  histories ;  mere  beadrolls  of  exterior  occurrences,  of  bat- 
tles, edifices,  enactments,  and  other  quite  superficial  phenom- 
ena; yet  being  clear  beadrolls,  well  adapted  for  memory, 
and  recited  in  a  lively  tone,  we  listen  with  satisfaction,  and 
learn  somewhat ;  learn  much,  if  we  began  knowing  nothing. 
Nay  sometimes  the  summary,  in  its  skilful  though  crowded 
arrangement,  and  brilliant  well-defined  outlines,  has  almost  a 
poetical  as  well  as  a  didactic  merit.  Charles  the  Twelfth 
may  still  pass  for  a  model  in  that  often-attempted  species  of 
Biography:  the  clearest  details  are  given  in  the  fewest 
words ;  we  have  sketches  of  strange  men  and  strange  coun- 
tries, of  wars,  adventures,  negotiations,  in  a  style  which,  for 
graphic  brevity,  rivals  that  of  Sallust.  It  is  a  line-engraving, 
on  a  reduced  scale,  of  that  Swede  and  his  mad  life ;  without 
colours,  yet  not  without  the  fore-shortenings  and  perspective 
observances,-  nay  not  altogether  without  the  deeper  harmo- 
nies, which  belong  to  a  true  Picture.  In  respect  of  compo- 
sition, whatever  may  be  said  of  its  accuracy  or  worth  other- 
wise, we  cannot  but  reckon  it  greatly  the  best  of  Voltaire's 
Histories. 

In  his  other  prose  works,  in  his  Novels,  and  innumerable 
Essays  and  fugitive  pieces,  the  same  clearness  of  order,  the 
same  rapid  precision  of  view,  again  forms  a  distinguishing 
merit.  His  Zadigs  and  Baboucs  and  Candides,  which,  con- 
sidered as  products  of  imagination,  perhaps  rank  higher  with 
foreigners  than  any  of  his  professedly  poetical  performances, 
are  instinct  with  this  sort  of  intellectual  life  :  the  sharpest 
glances,  though  from  an  oblique  point  of  sight,  into  at  least 
the  surface  of  human  life,  into  the  old  familiar  world  of  busi- 


60 


MISCELLANIES. 


ness ;  which  truly,  from  his  oblique  station,  looks  oblique 
enough,  and  yields  store  of  ridiculous  combinations.  The 
Wit,  manifested  chiefly  in  these  and  the  like  performances, 
but  ever  flowing,  unless  purposely  restrained,  in  boundless 
abundance  from  Voltaire's  mind,  has  been  often  and  duly 
celebrated.  It  lay  deep-rooted  in  his  nature ;  the  inevitable 
produce  of  such  an  understanding  with  such  a  character,  and 
was  from  the  first  likely,  as  it  actually  proved  in  the  latter 
period  of  his  life,  to  become  the  main  dialect  in  which  he 
spoke  and  even  thought.  Doing  all  justice  to  the  inexhaus- 
tible readiness,  the  quick  force,  the  polished  acuteness  of  Vol- 
taire's Wit,  we  may  remark,  at  the  same  time,  that  it  was 
nowise  the  highest  species  of  employment  for  such  a  mind  as 
his ;  that,  indeed,  it  ranks  essentially  among  the  lowest 
species  even  of  Ridicule.  It  is  at  all  times  mere  logical 
pleasantry ;  a  gaiety  of  the  head,  not  of  the  heart ;  there  is 
scarcely  a  twinkling  of  Humour  in  the  whole  of  his  number- 
less sallies.  Wit  of  this  sort  cannot  maintain  a  demure 
sedateness  ;  a  grave  yet  infinitely  kind  aspect,  warming  the 
inmost  soul  with  true  loving  mirth ;  it  has  not  even  the  force 
to  laugh  outright,  but  can  only  sniff  and  titter.  It  grounds 
itself,  not  on  fond  sportful  sympathy,  but  on  contempt,  or  at 
best  on  indifference.  It  stands  related  to  Humour  as  Prose 
does  to  Poetry;  of  which,  in  this  department  at  least,  Vol- 
taire exhibits  no  symptom.  The  most  determinedly  ludi- 
crous composition  of  his,  the  Pucelle,  which  cannot,  on  other 
grounds,  be  recommended  to  any  reader,  has  no  higher  merit 
than  that  of  an  audacious  caricature.  True,  he  is  not  a 
buffoon ;  seldom  or  never  violates  the  rules,  we  shall  not  say 
of  propriety,  yet  of  good  breeding  :  to  this  negative  praise 
he  is  entitled.  But  as  for  any  high  claim  to  positive  praise, 
it  cannot  be  made  good.  We  look  in  vain,  through  his 
whole  writings,  for  one  lineament  of  a  Quixote  or  a  Shandy ; 
even  of  a  Hudibrus  or  Battle  of  the  Boohs.  Indeed  it  has 
been  more  than  once  observed,  that  Humour  is  not  a  na- 
tional gift  with  the  French  in  late  times;  that  since  Mon- 


VOLTAIRE. 


61 


taigne's  day  it  seem?  to  have  wellnigh  vanished  from  among 
them. 

Considered  in  his  technical  capacity  of  Poet,  Yoltaire  need 
not,  at  present,  detain  us  very  long.  Here  too  his  excellence 
is  chiefly  intellectual,  and  shown  in  the  way  of  business-like 
method.  Everything  is  well  calculated  for  a  given  end; 
there  is  the  utmost  logical  fitness  of  sentiment,  of  incident,  of 
general  contrivance.  Xor  is  he  without  an  enthusiasm  that 
sometimes  resembles  inspiration ;  a  clear  fellow-feeling  for 
the  personages  of  his  scene  he  always  has  ;  with  a  chameleon 
susceptibility  he  takes  some  hue  of  every  object ;  if  he  can- 
not be  that  object,  he  at  least  plausibly  enacts  it.  Thus  we 
have  a  result  everywhere  consistent  with  itself ;  a  contriv- 
ance, not  without  nice  adjustments  and  brilliant  aspects, 
which  pleases  with  that  old  pleasure  of  '  difficulties  over- 
come,' and  the  visible  correspondence  of  means  to  end. 
That  the  deeper  portion  of  our  soul  sits  silent,  unmoved  un- . 
der  all  this ;  recognising  no  universal,  everlasting  Beauty, 
but  only  a  modish  Elegance,  less  the  work  of  a  poetical  crea- 
tion than  a  process  of  the  toilette,  need  occasion  no  surprise. 
It  signifies  only  that  Yoltaire  was  a  French  poet,  and  wrote 
as  the  French  people  of  that  day  required  and  approved. 
We  have  long  known  that  French  poetry  aimed  at  a  differ- 
ent result  from  ours ;  that  its  splendour  was  what  we  should 
call  a  dead,  artificial  one ;  not  the  manifold  soft  summer 
glories  of  Xature,  but  a  cold  splendour,  as  of  polished  metal. 

On  the  whole,  in  reading  Yoltaire's  poetry,  that  adventure 
of  the  Cafe  de  Procope  should  ever  be  held  in  mind.  He 
was  not  without  an  eye  to  have  looked,  had  he  seen  others 
looking,  into  the  deepest  nature  of  poetry;  nor  has  he  failed 
here  and  there  to  cast  a  glance  in  that  direction :  but  what 
preferment  could  such  enterprises  earn  for  him  in  the  Cafe 
de  Procope  ?  What  could  it  profit  his  all-precious  '  fame '  to 
pursue  them  farther?  In  the  end,  he  seems  to  have  heartily 
reconciled  himself  to  use  and  wont,  and  striven  only  to  do 
better  what  he  saw  all  others  doing.    Yet  his  private  poetical 


62 


MISCELLANIES. 


creed,  which  could  not  be  a  catholic  one,  was,  nevertheless, 
scarcely  so  bigoted  as  might  have  been  looked  for.  That 
censure  of  Shakspeare,  which  elicited  a  re-censure  in  Eng- 
land, perhaps  rather  deserved  a  4  recommendatory  epistle,' 
all  things  being  considered.  He  calls  Shakspeare  '  a  genius 
'  full  of  force  and  fertility,  of  nature  and  sublimity,'  though 
unhappily  4  without  the  smallest  spark  of  good  taste,  or  the 
4  smallest  acquaintance  with  the  rules  ; '  which,  in  Voltaire's 
dialect,  is  not  so  false ;  Shakspeare  having  really  almost  no 
Parisian  bon  gout  whatever,  and  walking  through  '  the  rules,' 
so  often  as  he  sees  good,  with  the  most  astonishing  tranquil- 
lity. After  a  fair  enough  account  of  Hamlet,  the  best  of  those 
'■farces  monstrueuses  qiCon  appelle  tragedies,'  where,  however, 
there  are  4  scenes  so  beautiful,  passages  so  grand  and  so  ter- 
rible,' Voltaire  thus  proceeds  to  resolve  two  great  problems : 

'  The  first,  how  so  many  wonders  could  accumulate  in  a  single 
head  ;  for  it  must  be  confessed  that  all  the  divine  Shakspeare's  plays 
are  written  in  this  taste :  the  second,  how  men's  minds  could  have 
been  elevated  so  as  to  look  at  these  plays  with  transport ;  and  how 
they  are  still  followed  after,  in  a  century  which  has  produced  Addi- 
son's Cato  ? 

'Our  astonishment  at  the  first  wonder  will  cease,  when  we  un- 
derstand that  Shakspeare  took  all  his  tragedies  from  histories  or 
romances  ;  and  that  in  this  case  he  only  turned  into  verse  the 
romance  of  Claudius,  Gertrude  and  Hamlet,  written  in  full  by  Saxo 
Grammaticus,  to  whom  be  the  praise. 

'  The  second  part  of  the  problem,  that  is  to  say,  the  pleasure  men 
take  in  these  tragedies,  presents  a  little  more  difficulty  ;  but  here  is 
(en  void)  the  solution,  according  to  the  deep  reflections  of  certain 
philosophers. 

'  The  English  chairmen,  the  sailors,  hackney-coachmen,  shop-por- 
ters, butchers,  clerks  even,  are  passionately  fond  of  shows  ;  give  them 
cock-fights,  bull-baitings,  fencing-matches,  burials,  duels,  gibbets, 
witchcraft,  apparitions,  they  run  thither  in  crowds ;  nay  there  is 
more  than  one  patrician  as  curious  as  the  populace.  The  citizens  of 
London  found,  in  Sliakspeare's  tragedies,  satisfaction  enough  for 
such  a  turn  of  mind.  The  courtiers  were  obliged  to  follow  the  tor- 
rent :  how  can  you  help  admiring  what  the  more  sensible  part  of  the 
town  admires  1  There  was  nothing  better  for  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years  :   the  admiration  grew  with  age,  and  became  an  idolatry. 


I 


VOLTAIRE.  63 

Some  touches  of  genius,  some  liappy  verses  full  of  force  and  nature, 
which  you  remember  in  spite  of  yourself,  atoned  for  the  remainder, 
and  soon  the  whole  piece  succeeded  by  the  help  of  some  beauties  of 
detail.' 1 

Here,  truly,  is  a  comfortable  little  theory,  which  throws 
light  on  more  than  one  thing.  However,  it  is  couched  in 
mild  terms,  comparatively  speaking.  Frederick  the  Great, 
for  example,  thus  gives  his  verdict : 

'  To  convince  yourself  of  the  wretched  taste  that  up  to  this  day 
prevails  in  Germany,  you  have  only  to  visit  the  public  theatres. 
You  will  there  see,  in  action,  the  abominable  plays  of  Shakspeare, 
translated  into  our  language  ;  and  the  whole  audience  fainting  with 
rapture  (se  pamer  d'aise)  in  listening  to  those  ridiculous  farces,  worthy 
of  the  savages  of  Canada.  I  call  them  such,  because  they  sin  against 
all  the  rules  of  the  theatre.  One  may  pardon  those  mad  sallies  in 
Shakspeare,  for  the  birth  of  the  arts  is  never  the  point  of  their  ma- 
turity. But  here,  even  now,  we  have  a  Goetz  de  Berlichingen,  which 
has  just  made  its  appearance  on  the  scene ;  a  detestable  imitation  of 
those  miserable  English  pieces ;  and  the  pit  applauds,  and  demands 
with  enthusiasm  the  repetition  of  these  disgusting  ineptitudes  (de 
ces  degoiitantes  platitudes).'2 

We  have  not  cited  these  criticisms  with  a  view  to  impugn 
them ;  but  simply  to  ascertain  where  the  critics  themselves 
are  standing.  This  passage  of  Frederick's  has  even  a  touch 
of  pathos  in  it ;  may  be  regarded  as  the  expiring  cry  of 
'  Gout'  in  that  country,  who  sees  himself  suddenly  belea- 
guered by  strange,  appalling  Supernatural  Influences,  which 
he  mistakes  for  Lapland  witchcraft  or  Cagliostro  jugglery ; 
which  nevertheless  swell  up  round  him,  irrepressible,  higher, 
ever  higher ;  and  so  he  drowns,  grasping  his  opera-hat,  in  an 
ocean  of  ' degoutantes  platitudes'  On  the  whole,  it  would 
appear  that  Voltaire's  view  of  poetry  was  radically  different 
from  ours ;  that,  in  fact,  of  what  we  should  strictly  call 
poetry,  he  had  almost  no  view  whatever.  A  Tragedy,  a 
Poem,  with  him  is  not  to  be  '  a  manifestation  of  man's  Reason 

1  CEuvres,  t.  xlvii.  p.  300. 

2  De  la  Litterature  Allemande  ;  Berlin,  1780.  We  quote  from  the  com- 
pilation, Goethe  in  den  Zeugnissen  der  Mitlebenden,  s.  124. 


64 


MISCELLANIES. 


in  forms  suitable  to  his  Sense ; '  but  rather  a  highly  complex 
egg-dance,  to  be  danced  before  the  King,  to  a  given  tune  and 
without  breaking  a  single  egg.  Nevertheless,  let  justice  be 
shown  to  him,  and  to  French  poetry  at  large.  This  latter  is 
a  peculiar  growth  of  our  modern  ages  ;  has  been  laboriously 
cultivated,  and  is  not  without  its  own  value.  We  have  to 
remark  also,  as  a  curious  fact,  that  it  has  been,  at  one  time 
or  other,  transplanted  into  all  countries,  England,  Germany, 
Spain ;  but  though  under  the  sunbeams  of  royal  protection, 
it  would  strike  root  nowhere.  Nay,  now  it  seems  falling  into 
the  sere  and  yellow  leaf  in  its  own  natal  soil :  the  axe  has 
already  been  seen  near  its  root ;  and  perhaps,  in  no  great 
lapse  of  years,  this  species  of  poetry  may  be  to  the  French, 
what  it  is  to  all  other  nations,  a  pleasing  reminiscence.  Yet 
the  elder  French  loved  it  with  zeal ;  to  them  it  must  have 
had  a  true  worth:  indeed  we  can  understand  how,  when  Life 
itself  consisted  so  much  in  Display,  these  representations  of 
Life  may  have  been  the  only  suitable  ones.  And  now,  when 
the  nation  feels  itself  called  to  a  more  grave  and  nobler  des- 
tiny among  nations,  the  want  of  a  new  literature  also  begins 
to  be  felt.  As  yet,  in  looking  at  their  too  purblind,  scram- 
bling controversies  of  Romanticists  and  Classicists,  we  cannot 
find  that  our  ingenious  neighbours  have  done  much  more 
than  make  a  commencement  in  this  enterprise  ;  however,  a 
commencement  seems  to  be  made :  they  are  in  what  may  be 
called  the  eclectic  state  ;  trying  all  things,  German,  English, 
Italian,  Spanish,  with  a  candour  and  real  love  of  improve- 
ment, which  give  the  best  omens  of  a  still  higher  success. 
From  the  peculiar  gifts  of  the  French,  and  their  peculiar 
spiritual  position,  we  may  expect,  had  they  once  more  at- 
tained  to  an  original  style,  many  important  benefits,  and  im- 
portant accessions  to  the  Literature  of  the  World.  Mean- 
while, in  considering  and  duly  estimating  what  that  people 
has,  in  i >a~t  times,  accomplished,  Voltaire  must  always  be 
reckoned  among  their  most  meritorious  Poets.  Inferior  in 
what  we  may  call  general  poetic  temperament  to  Racine ; 


VOLTAIRE. 


65 


greatly  inferior,  in  some  points  of  it,  to  Corneille,  he  has  an 
intellectual  vivacity,  a  quickness  both  of  sight  and  of  inven- 
tion, which  belongs  to  neither  of  these  two.  We  believe  that, 
among  foreign  nations,  his  Tragedies,  such  works  as  Zaire 
and  Mahomet,  are  considerably  the  most  esteemed  of  this 
school. 

However,  it  is  nowise  as  a  Poet,  Historian  or  Novelist, 
that  Voltaire  stands  so  prominent  in  Europe ;  but  chiefly 
as  a  religious  Polemic,  as  a  vehement  opponent  of  the 
Christian  Faith.  Viewed  in  this  last  character,  he  may 
give  rise  to  many  grave  reflections,  only  a  small  portion  of 
which  can  here  be  so  much  as  glanced  at.  We  may  say,  in 
general,  that  his  style  of  controversy  is  of  a  piece  with  him- 
self ;  not  a  higher,  and  scarcely  a  lower  style  than  might 
have  been  expected  from  him.  As,  in  a  moral  point  of 
view,  Voltaire  nowise  wanted  a  love  of  truth,  yet  had  withal 
a  still  deeper  love  of  his  own  interest  in  truth ;  was,  there- 
fore, intrinsically  no  Philosopher,  but  a  highly  accomplished 
Trivialist ;  so  likewise,  in  an  intellectual  point  of  view, 
he  manifests  himself  ingenious  and  adroit,  rather  than  noble 
or  comprehensive  ;  fights  for  truth  or  victory,  not  by  pa- 
tient meditation,  but  by  light  sarcasm,  whereby  victory  may 
indeed,  for  a  time,  be  gained ;  but  little  Truth,  what  can  be 
named  Truth,  especially  in  such  matters  as  this,  is  to  be 
looked  for. 

No  one,  we  suppose,  ever  arrogated  for  Voltaire  any 
praise  of  originality  in  this  discussion  ;  we  suppose  there 
is  not  a  single  idea,  of  any  moment,  relating  to  the  Christian 
Religion,  in  all  his  multifarious  writings,  that  had  not  been 
set  forth  again  and  again  before  his  enterprises  commenced. 
The  labours  of  a  very  mixed  multitude,  from  Porphyry 
down  to  Shaftesbury,  including  Hobbeses,  Tindals,  Tolands, 
some  of  them  sceptics  of  a  much  nobler  class,  had  left  little 
room  for  merit  in  this  kind  ;  nay,  Bayle,  his  own  country- 
man, had  just  finished  a  life  spent  in  preaching  scepticism 
precisely  similar,  and  by  methods  precisely  similar,  when 

VOL.  II.  5 


MISCELLANIES. 


Voltaire  appeared  on  the  arena.  Indeed,  scepticism,  as  we 
have  before  observed,  was  at  this  period  universal  among 
the  higher  ranks  in  France,  with  whom  Voltaire  chiefly 
associated.  It  is  only  in  the  merit  and  demerit  of  grinding 
down  this  grain  into  food  for  the  people,  and  inducing  so 
many  to  eat  of  it,  that  Voltaire  can  claim  any  singularity. 
However,  we  quarrel  not  with  him  on  this  head  :  there  may 
be  cases  where  the  want  of  originality  is  even  a  moral  merit. 
But  it  is  a  much  more  serious  ground  of  offence  that  he 
intermeddled  in  Religion,  without  being  himself,  in  any 
measure,  religious ;  that  he  entered  the  Temple  and  con- 
tinued there,  with  a  levity,  which,  in  any  Temple  where  men 
worship,  can  beseem  no  brother  man ;  that,  in  a  word,  he 
ardently,  and  with  long-continued  effort,  warred  against 
Christianity,  without  understanding  beyond  the  mere  super- 
ficies what  Christianity  was. 

His  polemical  procedure  in  this  matter,  it  appears  to  us, 
must  now  be  admitted  to  have  been,  on  the  whole,  a  shallow 
one.  Through  all  its  manifold  forms,  and  involutions,  and 
repetitions,  it  turns,  we  believe  exclusively,  on  one  point : 
what  Theologians  have  called  the  '  plenary  Inspiration  of  the 
Scriptures.'  This  is  the  single  wall,  against  which,  through 
long  years,  and  with  innumerable  battering-rams  and  cata- 
pults and  pop-guns,  he  unweariedly  batters.  Concede  him 
this,  and  his  ram  swings  freely  to  and  fro  through  space : 
there  is  nothing  farther  it  can  even  aim  at.  That  the  Sacred 
Books  could  be  aught  else  than  a  Bank-of-Faith  Bill,  for  such 
and  such  quantities  of  Enjoyment,  payable  at  sight  in  the 
other  world,  value  received  ;  which  bill  becomes  waste  pa- 
per, the  stamp  being  questioned  :  —  that  the  Christian  Relig- 
ion could  have  any  deeper  foundation  than  Books,  could 
possibly  be  written  in  the  purest  nature  of  man,  in  mys- 
terious, ineffaceable  characters,  to  which  Books,  and  all 
Revelations,  and  authentic  traditions,  were  but  a  subsidiary 
matter,  were  but  as  the  light  whereby  that  divine  writing 
was  to  be  read ;  —  nothing  of  this  seems  to  have,  even  in  the 


VOLTAIRE. 


G7 


faintest  manner,  occurred  to  him.  Yet  herein,  as  we  believe 
that  the  whole  world  has  now  begun  to  discover,  lies  the  real 
essence  of  the  question ;  by  the  negative  or  affirmative  de- 
cision of  which  the  Christian  Religion,  anything  that  is 
worth  calling  by  that  name,  must  fall  or  endure  forever. 
We  believe  also,  that  the  wiser  minds  of  our  age  have 
already  come  to  agreement  on  this  question ;  or  rather 
never  were  divided  regarding  it.  Christianity,  the  4  Wor- 
ship of  Sorrow,'  has  been  recognised  as  divine,  on  far  other 
grounds  than  '  Essays  on  Miracles,'  and  by  considerations 
infinitely  deeper  than  would  avail  in  any  mere  'trial  by 
jury.'  He  who  argues  against  it,  or  for  it,  in  this  manner, 
may  be  regarded  as  mistaking  its  nature :  the  Ithuriel, 
though  to  our  eyes  he  wears  a  body  and  the  fashion  of 
armour,  cannot  be  wounded  with  material  steel.  Our  fathers 
were  wiser  than  we,  when  they  said  in  deepest  earnestness, 
what  we  often  hear  in  shallow  mockery,  that  Religion  is' 
4  not  of  Sense,  but  of  Faith  ; '  not  of  Understanding,  but  of 
Reason.  He  who  finds  himself  without  the  latter,  who  by 
all  his  studying  has  failed  to  unfold  it  in  himself,  may  have 
studied  to  great  or  to  small  purpose,  we  say  not  which ;  but 
of  the  Christian  Religion,  as  of  many  other  things,  he  has 
and  can  have  no  knowledge. 

The  Christian  Doctrine  we  often  hear  likened  to  the 
Greek  Philosophy,  and  found,  on  all  hands,  some  meas- 
urable way  superior  to  it :  but  this  also  seems  a  mistake. 
The  Christian  Doctrine,  that  Doctrine  of  Humility,  in  all 
senses  godlike  and  the  parent  of  all  godlike  virtues,  is  not 
superior,  or  inferior,  or  equal,  to  any  doctrine  of  Socrates  or 
Thales  ;  being  of  a  totally  different  nature  ;  differing  from 
these,  as  a  perfect  Ideal  Poem  does  from  a  correct  Computa- 
tion in  Arithmetic.  He  who  compares  it  with  such  standards 
may  lament  that,  beyond  the  mere  letter,  the  purport  of  this 
divine  Humility  has  never  been  disclosed  to  him ;  that  the 
loftiest  feeling  hitherto  vouchsafed  to  mankind  is  as  yet  hid- 
den from  his  eyes. 


68 


MISCELLANIES. 


For  the  rest,  the  question  how  Christianity  originated  is 
doubtless  a  high  question  ;  resolvable  enough,  if  we  view 
only  its  surface,  which  was  all  that  Voltaire  saw  of  it ;  in- 
volved in  sacred,  silent,  unfathomable  depths,  if  we  investi- 
gate its  interior  meanings ;  which  meanings,  indeed,  it  may- 
be, every  new  age  will  develop  to  itself  in  a  new  manner 
and  with  new  degrees  of  light ;  for  the  whole  truth  may  be 
called  infinite,  and  to  man's  eye  discernible  only  in  parts  ; 
but  the  question  itself  is  nowise  the  ultimate  one  in  this 
matter. 

We  understand  ourselves  to  be  risking  no  new  assertion, 
but  simply  reporting  what  is  already  the  conviction  of  the 
greatest  of  our  age,  when  we  say,  —  that  cheerfully  rec- 
ognising, gratefully  appropriating  whatever  Voltaire  has 
proved,  or  any  other  man  has  proved,  or  shall  prove,  the 
Christian  Religion,  once  here,  cannot  again  pass  away ; 
that  in  one  or  the  other  form,  it  will  endure  through  all 
time  ;  that  as  in  Scripture,  so  also  in  the  heart  of  man,  is 
written,  'the  Gates  of  Hell  shall  not  prevail  against  it.' 
Were  the  memory  of  this  Faith  never  so  obscured,  as, 
indeed,  in  all  times,  the  coarse  passions  and  perceptions  of 
the  world  do  all  but  obliterate  it  in  the  hearts  of  most ;  yet 
in  every  pure  soul,  in  every  Poet  and  Wise  Man,  it  finds 
a  new  Missionary,  a  new  Martyr,  till  the  great  volume 
of  Universal  History  is  finally  closed,  and  man's  destinies 
are  fulfilled  in  this  earth.  'It  is  a  height  to  which  the 
'human  species  were  fated  and  enabled  to  attain;  and 
'  from  which,  having  once  attained  it,  they  can  never  retro- 
'  grade.' 

These  things,  which  it  were  far  out  of  our  place  to  at- 
tempt adequately  elucidating  here,  must  not  be  left  out  of 
sight,  in  appreciating  Voltaire's  polemical  worth.  We  find 
no  trace  of  these,  or  of  any  the  like  essential  considerations 
having  been  present  with  him,  in  examining  the  Christian 
Religion ;  nor  indeed  was  it  consistent  with  his  general 
habits  that  they  should  be  so.    Totally  destitute  of  religious 


VOLTAIRE.  09 

Reverence,  even  of  common  practical  seriousness  ;  by  nature 
or  habit,  undevout  both  in  heart  and  head  ;  not  only  without 
any  Belief,  in  other  than  a  material  sense,  but  without  the 
possibility  of  acquiring  any,  he  can  be  no  safe  or  perma- 
nently useful  guide  in  this  investigation.  We  may  con- 
sider him  as  having  opened  the  way  to  future  inquirers  of 
a  truer  spirit  ;  but  for  his  own  part,  as  having  engaged  in  aji 
enterprise,  the  real  nature  of  which  was  wellnigh  unknown 
to  him ;  and  engaged  in  it  with  the  issue  to  be  anticipated 
in  such  a  case ;  producing  chiefly  confusion,  dislocation,  de- 
struction, on  all  hands  ;  so  that  the  good  he  achieved  is  still, 
in  these  times,  found  mixed  with  an  alarming  proportion  of 
evil,  from  which,  indeed,  men  rationally  doubt  whether  much 
of  it  will  in  any  time  be  separable. 

We  should  err  widely  too,  if,  in  estimating  what  quantity, 
altogether  overlooking  what  quality,  of  intellect  Voltaire  may. 
have  manifested  on  this  occasion,  we  took  the  result  produced 
as  any  measure  of  the  force  applied.  His  task  was  not  one 
of  Affirmation,  but  of  Denial ;  not  a  task  of  erecting  and 
rearing  up,  which  is  slow  and  laborious  ;  but  of  destroying 
and  overturning,  which  in  most  cases  is  rapid  and  far  easier. 
The  force  necessary  for  him  was  nowise  a  great  and  noble 
one ;  but  a  small,  in  some  respects  a  mean  one ;  to  be  nimbly 
and  seasonably  put  in  use.  The  Ephesian  Temple,  which  it 
had  employed  many  wise  heads  and  strong  arms  for  a  life- 
time to  build,  could  be  smbuilt  by  one  madman,  in  a  single 
houi\ 

Of  such  errors,  deficiencies  and  positive  misdeeds,  it  ap- 
pears to  us  a  just  criticism  must  accuse  Voltaire  :  at  the  same 
time,  we  can  nowise  join  in  the  condemnatory  clamour  which 
so  many  worthy  persons,  not  without  the  best  intentions,  to 
this  day  keep  up  against  him.  His  whole  character  seems 
to  be  plain  enough,  common  enough,  had  not  extraneous  in- 
fluences so  perverted  our  views  regarding  it :  nor,  morally 
speaking,  is  it  a  worse  character,  but  considerably  a  better 
one,  than  belongs  to  the  mass  of  men.    Voltaire's  aims  in 


70 


MISCELLANIES. 


opposing  the  Christian  Religion  were  unhappily  of  a  mixed 
nature  ;  yet,  after  all,  very  nearly  such  aims  as  we  have 
often  seen  directed  against  it,  and  often  seen  directed  in  its 
favour :  a  little  love  of  finding  Truth,  with  a  great  love  of 
making  Proselytes ;  which  last  is  in  itself  a  natural,  universal 
feeling ;  and  if  honest,  is,  even  in  the  worst  cases,  a  subject 
for  pity,  rather  than  for  hatred.  As  a  light,  careless,  cour- 
teous Man  of  the  World,  he  offers  no  hateful  aspect ;  on  the 
contrary,  a  kindly,  gay,  rather  amiable  one :  hundreds  of 
men,  with  half  his  worth  of  disposition,  die  daily,  and  their 
little  world  laments  them.  It  is  time  that  he  too  should  be 
judged  of  by  his  intrinsic,  not  by  his  accidental  qualities; 
that  justice  should  be  done  to  him  also  ;  for  injustice  can 
profit  no  man  and  no  cause. 

In  fact,  Voltaire's  chief  merits  belong  to  Nature  and  him- 
self ;  his  chief  faults  are  of  his  time  and  country.  In  that 
famous  era  of  the  Pompadours  and  Encyclopedies,  he  forms 
the  main  figure  ;  and  was  such,  we  have  seen,  more  by  re- 
sembling the  multitude,  than  by  differing  from  them.  It  was 
a  strange  age  that  of  Louis  XV. ;  in  several  points  a  novel 
one  in  the  history  of  mankind.  In  regard  to  its  luxury  and 
depravity,  to  the  high  culture  of  all  merely  practical  and 
material  faculties,  and  the  entire  torpor  of  all  the  purely 
contemplative  and  spiritual,  this  era  considerably  resembles 
that  of  the  Roman  Emperors.  There  too  was  external 
splendour  and  internal  squalor  ;  the  highest  completeness  in 
all  sensual  arts,  including  among  these  not  cookery  and  its 
adjuncts  alone,  but  even  'effect-painting'  and  'effect-writ- 
ing ; '  only  the  art  of  virtuous  living  was  a  lost  one.  Instead 
of  Love  for  Poetry,  there  was  '  Taste '  for  it ;  refinement  in 
manners,  with  utmost  coarseness  in  morals  :  in  a  word,  the 
strange  spectacle  of  a  Social  System,  embracing  large,  culti- 
vated portions  of  the  human  species,  and  founded  only  on 
Atheism.  Willi  the  Romans,  things  went  what  we  should 
call  their  natural  course:  Liberty,  public  spirit  quietly  de- 
clined into  cap id- mortuum  ;  Self-love,'  Materialism,  Baseness 


VOLTAIRE.  7 1 

even  to  the  disbelief*  in  all  possibility  of  Virtue,  stalked  more 
and  more  imperiously  abroad ;  till  the  body-politic,  long  since 
deprived  of  its  vital  circulating  fluids,  had  now  become  a 
putrid  carcass,  and  fell  in  pieces  to  be  the  prey  of  ravenous 
wolves.  Then  was  there,  under  these  Attilas  and  Alarics,  a 
world-spectacle  of  destruction  and  despair,  compared  with 
which  the  often-commemorated  '  horrors  of  the  French 
Revolution,'  and  all  Napoleon's  wars,  were  but  the  gay 
jousting  of  a  tournament  to  the  sack  of  stormed  cities.  Our 
European  community  has  escaped  the  like  dire  consumma- 
tion ;  and  by  causes  which,  as  may  be  hoped,  will  always 
secure  it  from  such.  Nay,  were  there  no  other  cause,  it  may 
be  asserted,  that  in  a  commonwealth  where  the  Christian 
Religion  exists,  where  it  once  has  existed,  public  and  private 
Virtue,  the  basis  of  all  Strength,  never  can  become  extinct ; 
but  in  every  new  age,  and  even  from  the  deepest  decline, 
there  is  a  chance,  and  in  the  course  of  ages  a  certainty  of 
renovation. 

That  the  Christian  Religion,  or  any  Religion,  continued  to 
exist ;  that  some  martyr  heroism  still  lived  in  the  heart  of 
Europe  to  rise  against  mailed  Tyranny  when  it  rode  tri- 
umphant, —  was  indeed  no  merit  in  the  age  of  Louis  XV., 
but  a  happy  accident  which  it  could  not  altogether  get  rid  of. 
For  that  age  too  is  to  be  regarded  as  an  experiment,  on  the 
great  scale,  to  decide  the  question,  not  yet,  it  would  appear, 
settled  to  universal  satisfaction :  With  what  degree  of  vigour 
a  political  system,  grounded  on  pure  Self-interest,  never  so 
enlightened,  but  without  a  God  or  any  recognition  of  the  god- 
like in  man,  can  be  expected  to  flourish ;  or  whether,  in  such 
circumstances,  a  political  system  can  be  expected  to  flourish, 
or  even  to  subsist  at  all  ?  It  is  contended  by  many  that  our 
mere  love  of  personal  Pleasure,  or  Happiness  as  it  is  called, 
acting  on  every  individual,  with  such  clearness  as  he  may 
easily  have,  will  of  itself  lead  him  to  respect  the  rights  of 
others,  and  wisely  employ  his  own ;  to  fulfil,  on  a  mere 
principle  of  economy,  all  the  duties  of  a  good  patriot ;  so 


72 


MISCELLANIES. 


that,  in  what  respects  the  State,  or  the  mere  social  existence 
of  mankind,  Belief,  beyond  the  testimony  of  the  senses,  and 
Virtue,  beyond  the  very  common  Virtue  of  loving  what  is 
pleasant  and  hating  what  is  painful,  are  to  be  considered  as 
supererogatory  qualifications,  as  ornamental,  not  essential. 
Many  there  are,  on  the  other  hand,  who  pause  over  this 
doctrine  ;  cannot  discover,  in  such  a  universe  of  conflicting 
atoms,  any  principle  by  which  the  whole  shall  cohere  ;  for  if 
every  man's  selfishness,  infinitely  expansive,  is  to  be  hem- 
med-in  only  by  the  infinitely-expansive  selfishness  of  every 
other  man,  it  seems  as  if  we  should  have  a  world  of  mutually 
repulsive  bodies  with  no  centripetal  force  to  bind  them 
together  ;  in  which  case,  it  is  well  known,  they  would,  by 
and  by,  diffuse  themselves  over  space,  and  constitute  a  re- 
markable Chaos,  but  no  habitable  Solar  or  Stellar  System. 

If  the  age  of  Louis  XV.  was  not  made  an  experimentum 
cruets  in  regard  to  this  question,  one  reason  may  be,  that 
such  experiments  are  too  expensive.  Nature  cannot  afford, 
above  once  or  twice  in  the  thousand  years,  to  destroy 
a  whole  world,  for  purposes  of  science ;  but  must  content 
herself  with  destroying  one  or  two  kingdoms.  The  age  of 
Louis  XV.,  so  far  as  it  went,  seems  a  highly  illustrative  ex- 
periment. We  are  to  remark  also,  that  its  operation  was 
clogged  by  a  very  considerable  disturbing  force  ;  by  a  large 
remnant,  namely,  of  the  old  faith  in  Religion,  in  the  invisible, 
celestial  nature  of  Virtue,  which  our  French  Purifiers,  by 
their  utmost  efforts  of  lavation,  had  not  been  able  to  wash 
away.  The  men  did  their  best,  but  no  man  can  do  more. 
Their  worst  enemy,  we  imagine,  will  not  accuse  them  of  any 
undue  regard  to  things  unseen  and  spiritual :  far  from  prac- 
tising this  invisible  sort  of  Virtue,  they  cannot  even  believe 
in  its  possibility.  The  high  exploits  and  endurances  of  old 
ages  were  no  longer  virtues,  but  '  passions  ; '  these  antique 
persons  had  a  taste  for  being  heroes,  a  certain  fancy  to  die 
for  the  truth  :  the  more  fools  they  !  With  our  Philosophes. 
the  only  virtue  of  any   civilisation  was  what  they  call 


VOLTAIRE. 


73 


'.  Honour,'  the  sanctioning  deity  of  which  is  that  wonderful 
'  Force  of  Public  Opinion.'  Concerning  which  virtue  of 
Honour,  we  must  be  permitted  to  say,  that  she  reveals  her- 
self too  clearly  as  the  daughter  and  heiress  of  our  old  ac- 
quaintance Vanity,  who  indeed  has  been  known  enough  ever 
since  the  foundation  of  the  world,  at  least  since  the  date  of 
that  '  Lucifer,  son  of  the  Morning ; '  but  known  chiefly  in 
her  proper  character  of  strolling  actress,  or  cast-clothe* 
Abigail ;  and  never,  till  that  new  era,  had  seen  her  issue  set 
up  as  Queen  and  all-sufficient  Dictatress  of  man's  whole  soul, 
prescribing  with  nicest  precision  what,  in  all  practical  and  all 
moral  emergencies,  he  was  to  do  and  to  forbear.  Again, 
with  regard  to  this  same  Force  of  Public  Opinion,  it  is  a 
force  well  known  to  all  of  us  ;  respected,  valued  as  of  indis- 
pensable utility,  but  nowise  recognised  as  a  final  or  divine 
force.  We  might  ask,  Wbat  divine,  what  truly  great  thing 
had  ever  been  effected  by  this  force  ?  Was  it  the  Force 
of  Public  Opinion  that  drove  Columbus  to  America  ;  John 
Kepler,  not  to  fare  sumptuously  among  Rodolph's  Astrologers 
and  Fire-eaters,  but  to  perish  of  want,  discovering  the  true 
System  of  the  Stars  ?  Still  more  ineffectual  do  we  find  it  as 
a  basis  of  public  or  private  Morals.  Nay,  taken  by  itself,  it 
may  be  called  a  baseless  basis  :  for  without  some  ulterior 
sanction,  common  to  all  minds ;  without  some  belief  in  the 
necessary,  eternal,  or  which  is  the  same,  in  the  supramun- 
dane,  divine  nature  of  Virtue,  existing  in  each  individual, 
what  could  the  moral  judgment  of  a  thousand  or  a  thousand- 
thousand  individuals  avail  us  ?  Without  some  celestial  guid- 
ance, whencesoever  derived,  or  howsoever  named,  it  appears 
to  us  the  Force  of  Public  Opinion  would,  by  and  by,  become 
an  extremely  unprofitable  one.  "  Enlighten  Self-interest ! " 
cries  the  PMlosophe ;  "  do  but  sufficiently  enlighten  it ! " 
We  ourselves  have  seen  enlightened  Self-interests,  ere  now  ; 
and  truly,  for  most  part,  their  light  was  only  as  that  of  a 
horn-lantern,  sufficient  to  guide  the  bearer  himself  out  of 
various  puddles ;  but  to  us  and  the  world  of  comparatively 


74 


MISCELLANIES. 


small  advantage.  And  figure  the  human  species,  like  an 
endless  host,  seeking  its  way  onwards  through  undiscovered 
Time,  in  black  darkness,  save  that  each  had  his  horn-lantern, 
and  the  vanguard  some  few  of  glass  ! 

However,  we  will  not  dwell  on  controversial  niceties. 
What  we  had  to  remark  was,  that  this  era,  called  of  Philoso- 
phy, was  in  itself  but  a  poor  era ;  that  any  little  morality  it 
had  was  chiefly  borrowed,  and  from  those  very  ages  which  it 
accounted  so  barbarous.  For  this  '  Honour,'  this  1  Force 
of  Public  Opinion,'  is  not  asserted,  on  any  side,  to  have 
much  renovating,  but  only  a  sustaining  or  preventive  power ; 
it  cannot  create  new  Virtue,  but  at  best  may  preserve  what 
is  already  there.  Nay,  of  the  age  of  Louis  XV.,  we  may 
say  that  its  very  Power,  its  material  strength,  its  knowledge, 
all  that  it  had,  was  borrowed.  It  boasted  itself  to  be  an  age 
of  illumination ;  and  truly  illumination  there  was  of  its  kind : 
only,  except  the  illuminated  windows,  almost  nothing  to  be 
seen  thereby.  None  of  those  great  Doctrines  or  Institutions 
that  have  '  made  man  in  all  points  a  man  ; '  none  even  of 
those  Discoveries  that  have  the  most  subjected  external 
Nature  to  his  purposes,  were  made  in  that  age.  What 
Plough  or  Printing-press,  what  Chivalry  or  Christianity,  nay 
what  Steam-engine,  or  Quakerism,  or  Trial  by  Jury,  did 
these  Encyclopedists  invent  for  mankind?  They  invented 
simply  nothing :  not  one  of  man's  virtues,  not  one  of  man's 
powers,  is  due  to  them ;  in  all  these  respects  the  age  of  Louis 
XV.  is  among  the  most  barren  of  recorded  ages.  Indeed, 
the  whole  trade  of  our  Philosophes  was  directly  the  opposite 
of  invention :  it  was  not  to  produce,  that  they  stood  there ; 
but  to  criticise,  to  quarrel  with,  to  rend  in  pieces,  what  had 
been  already  produced  ;  —  a  quite  inferior  trade  :  sometimes 
a  useful,  but  on  the  whole  a  mean  trade  ;  often  the  fruit,  and 
always  the  parent,  of  meanness,  in  every  mind  that  perma- 
nently follows  it. 

Considering  the  then  position  of  affairs,  it  is  not  singular 
that  the  age  of  Louis  XV.  should  have  been  what  it  was  : 


VOLTAIRE. 


75 


an  age  without  nobleness,  without  high  virtue,  or  high  mani- 
festations of  talent ;  an  age  of  shallow  clearness,  of  polish, 
self-conceit,  scepticism  and  all  forms  of  Persiflage.  As  little 
does  it  seem  surprising,  or  peculiarly  blamable,  that  Voltaire, 
the  leading  man  of  that  age,  should  have  partaken  largely 
of  all  its  qualities.  True  his  giddy  activity  took  serious 
effect ;  the  light  firebrands,  which  he  so  carelessly  scattered 
abroad,  kindled  fearful  conflagrations:  but  in  these  there* 
has  been  good  as  well  as  evil ;  nor  is  it  just  that,  even  for 
the  latter,  he,  a  limited  mortal,  should  be  charged  with  more 
than  mortal's  responsibility.  After  all,  that  parched,  blighted 
period,  and  the  period  of  earthquakes  and  tornadoes  which 
followed  it,  have  now  wellnigh  cleared  away  :  they  belong  to 
the  Past,  and  for  us,  and  those  that  come  after  us,  are  not 
without  their  benefits,  and  calm  historical  meaning. 

'  The  thinking  heads  of  all  nations,'  says  a  deep  observer,  '  had  in 
secret  come  to  majority  ;  and  in  a  mistaken  feeling  of  their  vocation, 
rose  the  more  fiercely  against  antiquated  constraint.  The  Man  of 
Letters  is,  by  instinct,  opposed  to  a  Priesthood  of  old  standing  :  the 
literary  class  and  the  clerical  must  wage  a  war  of  extermination, 
when  they  are  divided  ;  for  both  strive  after  one  place.  Such  divis- 
ion became  more  and  more  perceptible,  the  nearer  we  approached 
the  period  of  European  manhood,  the  epoch  of  triumphant  Learning  ; 
and  Knowledge  and  Faith  came  into  more  decided  contradiction.  In 
the  prevailing  Faith,  as  was  thought,  lay  the  reason  of  the  universal 
degradation  ;  and  by  a  more  and  more  searching  Knowledge  men 
hoped  to  remove  it.  On  all  hands,  the  Religious  feeling  suffered, 
under  manifold  attacks  against  its  actual  manner  of  existence, 
against  the  forms  in  which  hitherto  it  had  embodied  itself.  The 
result  of  that  modern  way  of  thought  was  named  Philosophy ;  and 
in  this  all  was  included  that  opposed  itself  to  the  ancient  way  of 
thought,  especially,  therefore,  all  that  opposed  itself  to  Religion. 
The  original  personal  hatred  against  the  Catholic  Faith  passed,  by 
degrees,  into  hatred  against  the  Bible,  against  the  Christian  Religion, 
and  at  last  against  Religion  altogether.  Nay  more,  this  hatred  of 
Religion  naturally  extended  itself  over  all  objects  of  enthusiasm  in 
general ;  proscribed  Fancy  and  Feeling,  Morality  and  love  of  Art, 
the  Future  and  the  Antique ;  placed  man,  with  an  effort,  foremost  in 
the  series  of  natural  productions  ;  and  changed  the  infinite,  creative 
music  of  the  Universe  into  the  monotonous  clatter  of  a  boundless"" 


7G 


MISCELLANIES. 


Mill,  which,  turned  by  the  stream  of  Chance,  and  swimming  thereon, 
was  a  Mill  of  itself,  without  Architect  and  Miller,  properly  a  genuine 
perpetuum  mobile,  a  real  self-grinding  Mill. 

'  One  enthusiasm  was  generously  left  to  poor  mankind,  and  ren- 
dered indispensable  as  a  touchstone  of  the  highest  culture,  for  all 
jobbers  in  the  same  :  Enthusiasm  for  this  magnanimous  Philosophy, 
and  above  all,  for  these  its  priests  and  mystagogues.  France  was  so 
happy  as  to  be  the  birthplace  and  dwelling  of  this  new  Faith,  which 
had  thus,  from  patches  of  pure  knowledge,  been  pasted  together. 
Low  as  Poetry  ranked  in  this  new  Church,  there  were  some  poets 
among  them,  who,  for  effect's  sake,  made  use  of  the  old  ornaments 
and  old  lights ;  but  in  so  doing,  ran  a  risk  of  kindling  the  new  world- 
system  by  ancient  fire.  More  cunning  brethren,  however,  were  at 
hand  to  help  ;  and  always  in  season  poured  cold  water  on  the  warm- 
ing audience.  The  members  of  this  Church  were  restlessly  em- 
ployed in  clearing  Nature,  the  Earth,  the  Souls  of  men,  the  Sciences, 
from  all  Poetry  ;  obliterating  every  vestige  of  the  Holy  ;  disturbing, 
by  sarcasms,  the  memory  of  all  lofty  occurrences  and  lofty  men  ; 
disrobing  the  world  of  all  its  variegated  vesture.  *  *  *  Pity  that 
Nature  continued  so  wondrous  and  incomprehensible,  so  poetical  and 
infinite,  all  efforts  to  modernise  her  notwithstanding  !  However,  if 
anywhere  an  old  superstition,  of  a  higher  world  and  the  like,  came 
to  light,  instantly,  on  all  hands,  was  a  springing  of  rattles ;  that,  if 
possible,  the  dangerous  spark  might  be  extinguished,  by  appliances 
of  philosophy  and  wit :  yet  Tolerance  was  the  watchword  of  the 
cultivated  ;  and  in  France,  above  all,  synonymous  with  Philosophy. 
Highly  remarkable  is  this  history  of  modern  Unbelief;  the  key  to 
all  the  vast  phenomena  of  recent  times.  Not  till  last  century,  till 
the  latter  half  of  it,  does  the  novelty  begin  ;  and  in  a  little  while,  it 
expands  to  an  immeasurable  bulk  and  variety :  a  second  Reforma- 
tion, a  more  comprehensive,  and  more  specific,  was  unavoidable  ; 
and  naturally  it  first  visited  that  land  which  was  the  most  mod- 
ernised, and  had  the  longest  lain  in  an  asthenic  state,  from  want 
of  freedom.       *       *  * 

'  At  the  present  epoch,  however,  we  stand  high  enough  to  look 
back  with  a  friendly  smile  on  those  bygone  days  ;  and  even  in  those 
marvellous  follies  to  discern  curious  crystallisations  of  historical 
matter.  Thankfully  will  we  stretch  out  our  hands  to  those  Men  of 
Letters  and  Philosophes:  for  this  delusion  too  required  to  bo  ex- 
hausted, and  the  scientific  side  of  things  to  have  full  value  given  it. 
More  beauteous  and  many-coloured  stands  Poesy,  like  a  leafy  India, 
when  contrasted  with  the  cold,  dead  Spitzbergen  of  that  Closet-Logic. 
That  in  the  middle  of  the  globe,  an  India,  so  warm  and  lordly,  might 
exist,  must  also  a  cold  motionless  sea,  dead  cliffs,  mist  instead  of  the 


VOLTAIRE. 


77 


starry  sky,  and  a  long  night  make  both  poles  uninhabitable.  The 
deep  meaning  of  the  laws  of  Mechanism  lay  heavy  on  those  an- 
chorites in  the  deserts  of  Understanding  :  the  charm  of  the  first 
glimpse  into  it  overpowered  them  :  the  Old  avenged  itself  on  them  ; 
to  the  first  feeling  of  self-consciousness,  they  sacrificed,  with  won- 
drous devotedness,  what  was  holiest  and  fairest  in  the  world ;  and 
were  the  first  that,  in  practice,  again  recognised  and  preached  forth 
the  sacredness  of  Nature,  the  infinitude  of  Art,  the  independence  of 
Knowledge,  the  worth  of  the  Practical,  and  the  all-presence  of  the# 
Spirit  of  History  ;  and  so  doing,  put  an  end  to  a  Spectre-dynasty, 
more  potent,  universal  and  terrific  than  perhaps  they  themselves 
were  aware  of.' 1 

How  far  our  readers  will  accompany  Novalis  in  such  high- 
soaring  speculation,  is  not  for  us  to  say.  Meanwhile,  that 
the  better  part  of  them  have  already,  in  their  own  dialect, 
united  with  him,  and  with  us,  in  candid  tolerance,  in  clear 
acknowledgment,  towards  French  Philosophy,  towards  this 
Voltaire  and  the  spiritual  period  which  bears  his  name,  we 
do  not  hesitate  to  believe.  Intolerance,  animosity  can  for- 
ward no  cause ;  and  least  of  all  beseems  the  cause  of 
moral  and  religious  truth.  A  wise  man  has  well  re- 
minded us,  that  '  in  any  controversy,  the  instant  we  feel 
'  angry,  we  have  already  ceased  striving  for  Truth,  and 
'  begun  striving  for  Ourselves.'  Let  no  man  doubt  but 
Voltaire  and  his  disciples,  like  all  men  and  all  things  that 
live  and  act  in  God's  world,  will  one  day  be  found  to  have 
1  worked  together  for  good.'  Nay  that,  with  all  his  evil,  he 
has  already  accomplished  good,  must  be  admitted  in  the 
soberest  calculation.  How  much  do  we  include  in  this  little 
word :  He  gave  the  death-stab  to  modern  Superstition ! 
That  horrid  incubus,  which  dwelt  in  darkness,  shunning  the 
light,  is  passing  away ;  with  all  its  racks,  and  poison-chalices, 
and  foul  sleeping-draughts,  is  passing  away  without  return. 
It  was  a  most  weighty  service.  Does  not  the  cry  of  "  No 
Popery,"  and  some  vague  terror  or  sham-terror  of  '  Smith- 
field  fires,'  still  act  on  certain  minds  in  these  very  days  ? 
i  Novalis  Schriften,  i.  s.  198. 


78 


MISCELLANIES. 


He  who  sees  even  a  little  way  into  the  signs  of  the  times, 
sees  well  that  both  the  Smithfield  fires,  and  the  Edinburgh 
thumb  screws  (for  these  too  must  be  held  in  remembrance) 
are  things  which  have  long,  very  long,  lain  behind  us ;  di- 
vided from  us  by  a  wall  of  Centuries,  transparent  indeed, 
but  more  impassable  than  adamant.  For,  as  we  said,  Super- 
stition is  in  its  death-lair  :  the  last  agonies  may  endure  for 
decades,  or  for  centuries  ;  but  it  carries  the  iron  in  its  heart, 
and  will  not  vex  the  earth  any  more. 

That,  with  Superstition,  Religion  is  also  passing  away, 
seems  to  us  a  still  more  ungrounded  fear.  Religion  cannot 
pass  away.  The  burning  of  a  little  straw  may  hide  the 
stars  of  the  sky  ;  but  the  stars  are  there,  and  will  re-appear. 
On  the  whole,  we  must  repeat  the  often-repeated  saying,  that 
it  is  unworthy  a  religious  man  to  view  an  irreligious  one 
either  with  alarm  or  aversion  ;  or  with  any  other  feeling  than 
regret,  and  hope,  and  brotherly  commiseration.  If  he  seek 
Truth,  is  he  not  our  brother,  and  to  be  pitied  ?  If  he  do 
not  seek  Truth,  is  he  not  still  our  brother,  and  to  be  pitied 
still  more  ?  Old  Ludovicus  Vives  has  a  story  of  a  clown 
that  killed  his  ass  because  it  had  drunk  up  the  moon,  and  he 
thought  the  world  could  ill  spare  that  luminary.  So  he  killed 
his  ass,  ut  lunam  redderet.  The  clown  was  well-intentioned, 
but  unwise.  Let  us  not  imitate  him  :  let  us  not  slay  a  faith- 
ful servant,  who  has  carried  us  far.  He  has  not  drunk  the 
moon  ;  but  only  the  reflection  of  the  moon,  in  his  own  poor 
water-pail,  where  too,  it  may  be,  he  was  drinking  with  pur- 
poses the  most  harmless. 


NOVALIS. 


79 


NOVALIS.* 
[1829.] 

A  number  of  years  ago,  Jean  Paul's  copy  of  Novalis  led 
him  to  infer  that  the  German  reading-world  was  of  a  quick 
disposition  ;  inasmuch  as,  with  respect  to  books  that  required 
more  than  one  perusal,  it  declined  perusing  them  at  all. 
Paul's  Novalis,  we  suppose,  was  of  the  first  Edition,  uncut, 
dusty,  and  lent  him  from  the  Public  Library  with  willing- 
ness, nay  with  joy.  But  times,  it  would  appear,  must  be 
considerably  changed  since  then ;  indeed,  were  we  to  judge 
of  German  reading  habits  from  these  Volumes  of  ours,  we 
should  draw  quite  a  different  conclusion  to  Paul's ;  for  they 
are  of  the  fourth  Edition,  perhaps  therefore  the  ten-thou- 
sandth copy,  and  that  of  a  Book  demanding,  whether  deserv- 
ing or  not,  to  be  oftener  read  than  almost  any  other  it  has 
ever  been  our  lot  to  examine. 

Without  at  all  entering  into  the  merits  of  Novalis,  we  may 
observe  that  we  should  reckon  it  a  happy  sign  of  Literature, 
were  so  solid  a  fashion  of  study  here  and  there  established  in 
all  countries  :  for  directly  in  the  teeth  of  most  '  intellectual 
tea-circles,'  it  may  be  asserted  that  no  good  Book,  or  good 
thing  of  any  sort,  shows  its  best  face  at  first ;  nay  that  the 
commonest  quality  in  a  true  work  of  Art,  if  its  excellence 
have  any  depth  and  compass,  is  that  at  first  sight  it  occasions 

1  Foreign  Review,  No.  7.  —  Novalis  Schriften.  Herausgegeben  von 
Ludwig  Tieclc  und  Friedrich  Schlegel  (Novalis'  Writings.  Edited  by 
Ludwig  Tieck  and  Friedrich  Schlegel).  Fourth  Edition.  2  vols.  Berlin, 
1826. 


80 


MISCELLANIES. 


a  certain  disappointment ;  perhaps  even,  mingled  with  its  un- 
deniable beauty,  a  certain  feeling  of  aversion.  Not  as  if  we 
meant,  by  this  remark,  to  cast  a  stone  at  the  old  guild  of  liter- 
ary Improvisators,  or  any  of  that  diligent  brotherhood,  whose 
trade  it  is  to  blow  soap-bubbles  for  their  fellow-creatures ; 
which  bubbles,  of  course,  if  they  are  not  seen  and  admired 
this  moment,  will  be  altogether  lost  to  men's  eyes  the  next. 
Considering  the  use  of  these  blowers,  in  civilised  commu- 
nities, we  rather  wish  them  strong  lungs,  and  all  manner  of 
prosperity:  but  simply  we  would  contend  that  such  soap- 
bubble  guild  should  not  become  the  sole  one  in  Literature ; 
that  being  indisputably  the  strongest,  it  should  content  itself 
with  this  preeminence,  and  not  tyrannically  annihilate  its  less 
prosperous  neighbours.  For  it  should  be  recollected  that 
Literature  positively  has  other  aims  than  this  of  amusement 
from  hour  to  hour ;  nay  perhaps  that  this,  glorious  as  it  may 
be,  is  not  its  highest  or  true  aim.  We  do  say,  therefore,  that 
the  Improvisator  corporation  should  be  kept  within  limits ; 
and  readers,  at  least  a  certain  small  class  of  readers,  should 
understand  that  some  few  departments  of  human  inquiry  have 
still  their  depths  and  difficulties ;  that  the  abstruse  is  not  pre- 
cisely synonymous  with  the  absurd ;  nay  that  light  itself  may 
be  darkness,  in  a  certain  state  of  the  eyesight ;  that,  in  short, 
cases  may  occur  when  a  little  patience  and  some  attempt  at 
thought  would  not  be  altogether  superfluous  in  reading.  Let 
the  mob  of  gentlemen  keep  their  own  ground,  and  be  happy 
and  applauded  there  :  if  they  overstep  that  ground,  they  in- 
deed may  flourish  the  better  for  it,  but  the  reader  will  suffer 
damage.  For  in  this  way,  a  reader,  accustomed  to  see 
through  everything  in  one  second  of  time,  comes  to  forget 
that  his  wisdom  and  critical  penetration  are  finite  and  not 
infinite ;  and  so  commits  more  than  one  mistake  in  his  con- 
clusions. The  Reviewer  too,  who  indeed  is  only  a  prepara- 
tory reader,  as  it  were  a  sort  of  sieve  and  drainer  for  the 
use  of  more  luxurious  readers,  soon  follows  his  example : 
these  two  react  still  farther  on  the  mob  of  gentlemen;  and 


NOV  AOS. 


81 


so  among  them  all,  'With  this  action  and  reaction,  matters 
grow  worse  and  worse. 

It  rather  seems  to  us  as  if,  in  this  respect  of  faithfulness  in 
reading,  the  Germans  were  somewhat  ahead  of  us  English ; 
at  least  we  have  no  such  proof  to  show  of  it  as  that  fourth 
Edition  of  Novalis.  Our  Coleridge's  Friend,  for  example, 
and  Biographia  Literaria  are  but  a  slight  business  compared 
with  these  Schriften ;  little  more  than  the  Alphabet,  and 
that  in  gilt  letters,  of  such  Philosophy  and  Art  as  is  here 
taught  in  the  form  of  Grammar  and  Rhetorical  Compend: 
yet  Coleridge's  works  were  triumphantly  condemned  by  the 
whole  reviewing  world,  as  clearly  unintelligible ;  and  among 
readers  they  have  still  but  an  unseen  circulation ;  like  living 
brooks,  hidden  for  the  present  under  mountains  of  froth  and 
theatrical  snow-paper,  and  which  only  at  a  distant  day,  when 
these  mountains  shall  have  decomposed  themselves  into  gas 
and  earthly  residuum,  may  roll  forth  in  their  true  limpid 
shape,  to  gladden  the  general  eye  with  what  beauty  and 
everlasting  freshness  does  reside  in  them.  It  is  admitted  too, 
on  all  hands,  that  Mr.  Coleridge  is  a  man  of  '  genius,'  that  is, 
a  man  having  more  intellectual  insight  than  other  men  ;  and 
strangely  enough,  it  is  taken  for  granted,  at  the  same  time, 
that  he  has  less  intellectual  insight  than  any  other.  For 
why  else  are  his  doctrines  to  be  thrown  out  of  doors,  without 
examination,  as  false  and  worthless,  simply  because  they  are 
obscure?  Or  how  is  their  so  palpable  falsehood  to  be  ac- 
counted for  to  our  minds,  except  on  this  extraordinary 
ground :  that  a  man  able  to  originate  deep  thoughts  (such  is 
the  meaning  of  genius)  is  unable  to  see  them  when  origi- 
nated ;  that  the  creative  intellect  of  a  Philosopher  is  destitute 
of  that  mere  faculty  of  logic  which  belongs  to  '  all  Attorneys, 
and  men  educated  in  Edinburgh?'  The  Cambridge  carrier, 
when  asked  whether  his  horse  could  "  draw  inferences," 
readily  replied,  "  Yes,  anything  in  reason ;  "  but  here,  it 
seems,  is  a  man  of  genius  who  has  no  similar  gift. 

We  ourselves,  we  confess,  are  too  young  in  the  study  of 

VOL.  II.  6 


82 


MISCELLANIES. 


human  nature  to  have  met  with  any  such  anomaly.  Never 
yet  has  it  been  our  fortune  to  fall  in  with  any  man  of  genius, 
whose  conclusions  did  not  correspond  better  with  his  prem- 
ises, and  not  worse,  than  those  of  other  men  ;  whose  genius, 
when  it  once  came  to  be  understood,  did  not  manifest  itself 
in  a  deeper,  fuller,  truer  view  of  all  things  human  and  divine, 
than  the  clearest  of  your  so  laudable  '  practical  men  '  had 
claim  to.  Such,  we  say,  has  been  our  uniform  experience ; 
so  uniform,  that  we  now  hardly  ever  expect  to  see  it  contra- 
dicted. True  it  is,  the  old  Pythagorean  argument  of  '  the 
master  said  it,'  has  long  since  ceased  to  be  available :  in  these 
days,  no  man,  except  the  Pope  of  Rome,  is  altogether  exempt 
from  error  of  judgment;  doubtless  a  man  of  genius  may 
chance  to  adopt  false  opinions;  nay  rather,  like  all  other 
sons  of  Adam,  except  that  same  enviable  Pope,  must  oc- 
casionally adopt  such.  Nevertheless,  we  reckon  it  a  good 
maxim,  That  no  error  is  fully  confuted  till  we  have  seen  not 
only  that  it  is  an  error,  but  how  it  became  one ;  till  finding 
that  it  clashes  with  the  principles  of  truth  established  in  our 
own  mind,  we  find  also  in  what  way  it  had  seemed  to  har- 
monise with  the  principles  of  truth  established  in  that  other 
mind,  perhaps  so  unspeakably  superior  to  ours.  Treated  by 
this  method,  it  still  appears  to  us,  according  to  the  old  saying, 
that  the  errors  of  a  wise  man  are  literally  more  instructive 
than  the  truths  of  a  fool.  For  the  wise  man  travels  in  lofty, 
far-seeing  regions  ;  the  fool,  in  low-lying,  high-fenced  lanes  : 
retracing  the  footsteps  of  the  former,  to  discover  where  he 
deviated,  whole  provinces  of  the  Universe  are  laid  open  to 
us ;  in  the  path  of  the  latter,  granting  even  that  he  have  not 
deviated  at  all,  little  is  laid  open  to  us  but  two  wheel-ruts 
and  two  hedges. 

On  these  grounds  we  reckon  it  more  profitable,  in  almost 
any  case,  to  have  to  do  with  men  of  depth,  than  with  men  of 
shallowness :  and  were  it  possible,  we  would  read  no  book 
that  was  not  written  by  one  of  the  former  class;  all  mem- 
bera  of  which  we  would  love  and  venerate,  how  perverse 


NOVALIS.  83 

soever  they  might  seem  to  us  at  first ;  nay  though,  after  the 
fullest  investigation,  we  still  found  many  things  to  pardon  in 
them.  Such  of  our  readers  as  at  all  participate  in  this  pre- 
dilection will  not  blame  us  for  bringing  them  acquainted  with 
Novalis,  a  man  of  the  most  indisputable  talent,  poetical  and 
philosophical ;  whose  opinions,  extraordinary,  nay  altogether 
wild  and  baseless  as  they  often  appear,  are  not  without  a# 
strict  coherence  in  his  own  mind,  and  will  lead  any  other 
mind,  that  examines  them  faithfully,  into  endless  considera- 
tions ;  opening  the  strangest  inquiries,  new  truths,  or  new 
possibilities  of  truth,  a  whole  unexpected  world  of  thought, 
where,  whether  for  belief  or  denial,  the  deepest  questions 
await  us. 

In  what  is  called  reviewing  such  a  book  as  this,  we  are 
aware  that  to  the  judicious  craftsman  two  methods  present 
themselves.  The  first  and  most  convenient  is,  for  the  Re- 
viewer to  perch  himself  resolutely,  as  it  were,  on  the  shoul- 
der of  his  Author,  and  therefrom  to  show  as  if  he  commanded 
him  and  looked  down  on  him  by  natural  superiority  of  stat- 
ure. Whatsoever  the  great  man  says  or  does,  the  little  man 
shall  treat  with  an  air  of  knowingness  and  light  condescend- 
ing mockery ;  professing,  with  much  covert  sarcasm,  that  this 
and  that  other  is  beyond  his  comprehension,  and  cunningly 
asking  his  readers  if  they  comprehend  it !  Herein  it  will 
help  him  mightily,  if,  besides  description,  he  can  quote  a  few 
passages,  which,  in  their  detached  state,  and  taken  most 
probably  in  quite  a  wrong  acceptation  of  the  words,  shall 
sound  strange,  and,  to  certain  hearers,  even  absurd ;  all 
which  will  be  easy  enough,  if  he  have  any  handiness  in  the 
business,  and  address  the  right  audience ;  truths,  as  this 
world  goes,  being  true  only  for  those  that  have  some  under- 
standing of  them ;  as,  for  instance,  in  the  Yorkshire  Wolds, 
and  Thames  Coal-ships,  Christian  men  enough  might  be 
found,  at  this  day,  who,  if  you  read  them  the  Thirty-ninth  of 
the  Principia,  would  '  grin  intelligence  from  ear  to  ear.'  On 
the  other  hand,  should  our  Reviewer  meet  with  any  passage, 


8i 


MISCELLANIES. 


the  wisdom  of  which,  deep,  plain  and  palpable  to  the  sim- 
plest, might  cause  misgivings  in  the  reader,  as  if  here  were  a 
man  of  half-unknown  endowment,  whom  perhaps  it  were 
better  to  wonder  at  than  laugh  at.  our  Reviewer  either  sup- 
presses it,  or  citing  it  with  an  air  of  meritorious  candour,  calls 
upon  his  Author,  in  a  tone  of  command  and  encouragement, 
to  lay  aside  his  transcendental  crotchets,  and  write  always 
thus,  and  he  will  admire  him.  Whereby  the  reader  again 
feels  comforted  ;  proceeds  swimmingly  to  the  conclusion  of 
the  'Article,'  and  shuts  it  with  a  victorious  feeling,  not  only 
that  he  and  the  Reviewer  understand  this  man,  but  also  that, 
with  some  rays  of  fancy  and  the  like,  the  man  is  little  better 
than  a  living  mass  of  darkness. 

In  this  way  does  the  small  Reviewer  triumph  over  great 
Authors  ;  but  it  is  the  triumph  of  a  fool.  In  this  way  too  does 
he  recommend  himself  to  certain  readers,  but  it  is  the  recom- 
mendation of  a  parasite,  and  of  no  true  servant.  The  ser- 
vant would  have  spoken  truth,  in  this  case ;  truth,  that  it 
might  have  profited,  however  harsh :  the  parasite  glozes  his 
master  with  sweet  speeches,  that  he  may  filch  applause,  and 
certain  '  guineas  per  sheet,'  from  him ;  substituting  for  igno- 
rance which  was  harmless,  error  which  is  not  so.  And  yet  to 
the  vulgar  reader,  naturally  enough,  that  flattering  unction  is 
full  of  solacement.  In  fact,  to  a  reader  of  this  sort  few  things 
can  be  more  alarming  than  to  find  that  his  own  little  Parish, 
where  he  lived  so  snug  and  absolute,  is,  after  all,  not  the 
whole  Universe;  that  beyond  the  hill  which  screened  his 
house  from  the  west  wind,  and  grew  his  kitchen-vegetables 
so  sweetly,  there  are  other  hills  and  other  hamlets,  nay 
mountains  and  towered  cities ;  with  all  which,  if  he  would 
continue  to  pass  for  a  geographer,  he  must  forthwith  make 
himself  acquainted.  Now  this  Reviewer,  often  his  fellow  Pa- 
rishioner, is  a  safe  man  ;  leads  him  pleasantly  to  the  hill-top  ; 
shows  him  that  indeed  there  are,  or  seem  to  be,  other  ex- 
panses, these  too  of  boundless  extent  :  but  with  only  cloud 
mountains,  and  fata-morgana  cities  ;  the  true  character  of 


NOVALIS.  85 

that  region  being  Vacuity,  or  at  best  a  stony  desert  tenanted 
by  Gryphons  and  Chimeras. 

Surely,  if  printing  is  not,  like  courtier  speech,  '  the  art  of 
concealing  thought,'  all  this  must  be  blamable  enough.  Is 
it  the  Reviewer's  real  trade  to  be  a  pander  of  laziness,  self- 
conceit  and  all  manner  of  contemptuous  stupidity  on  the  part 
of  his  reader ;  carefully  ministering  to  these  propensities  ; 
carefully  fencing  off  whatever  might  invade  that  fool's-para- 
dise  with  news  of  disturbance  ?  Is  he  the  priest  of  Litera- 
ture and  Philosophy,  to  interpret  their  mysteries  to  the 
common  man  ;  as  a  faithful  preacher,  teaching  him  to  un- 
derstand what  is  adapted  for  his  understanding,  to  reverence 
what  is  adapted  for  higher  understandings  than  his  ?  Or 
merely  the  lackey  of  Dulness,  striving  for  certain  wages,  of 
pudding  or  praise,  by  the  month  or  quarter,  to  perpetuate 
the  reign  of  presumption  and  triviality  on  earth  ?  If  the 
latter,  will  he  not  be  counselled  to  pause  for  an  instant,  and 
reflect  seriously,  whether  starvation  were  worse  or  were  bet- 
ter than  such  a  dog's-existence  ? 

Our  reader  perceives  that  we  are  for  adopting  the  second 
method  with  regard  to  Novalis  ;  that  we  wish  less  to  insult 
over  this  highly-gifted  man,  than  to  gain  some  insight  into 
him  ;  that  we  look  upon  his  mode  of  being  and  thinking  as 
very  singular,  but  not  therefore  necessarily  very  contempti- 
ble ;  as  a  matter,  in  fact,  worthy  of  examination,  and  difficult 
beyond  most  others  to  examine  wisely  and  with  profit.  Let 
no  man  expect  that,  in  this  case,  a  Samson  is  to  be  led  forth, 
blinded  and  manacled,  to  make  him  sport.  Nay,  might  it 
not,  in  a  spiritual  sense,  be  death,  as  surely  it  would  be 
damage,  to  the  small  man  himself?  For  is  not  this  habit 
of  sneering  at  all  greatness,  of  forcibly  bringing  down  all 
greatness  to  his  own  height,  one  chief  cause  which  keeps 
that  height  so  very  inconsiderable  ?  Come  of  it  what  may, 
we  have  no  refreshing  dew  for  the  small  man's  vanity  in 
this  place  ;  nay  rather,  as  charitable  brethren,  and  fellow- 
sufferers  from  that  same  evil,  we  would  gladly  lay  the  sickle 


86 


MISCELLANIES. 


to  that  reed-grove  of  self-conceit,  which  has  grown  round 
him,  and  reap  it  altogether  away,  that  so  the  true  figure 
of  the  world,  and  his  own  true  figure,  might  no  longer  be 
utterly  hidden  from  him.  Does  this  our  brother,  then,  re- 
fuse to  accompany  us,  without  such  allurements  ?  He 
must  even  retain  our  best  wishes,  and  abide  by  his  own 
hearth. 

Farther,  to  the  honest  few  who  still  go  along  with  us  on 
this  occasion,  we  are  bound  in  justice  to  say  that,  far  from 
looking  down  on  Novalis,  we  cannot  place  either  them  or 
ourselves  on  a  level  with  him.  To  explain  so  strange  an 
individuality,  to  exhibit  a  mind  of  this  depth  and  singu- 
larity before  the  minds  of  readers  so  foreign  to  him  in  every 
sense,  would  be  a  vain  pretension  in  us.  With  the  best  will, 
and  after  repeated  trials,  we  have  gained  but  a  feeble  notion 
of  Novalis  for  ourselves  :  his  Volumes  come  before  us  with 
every  disadvantage  ;  they  are  the  posthumous  works  of  a 
man  cut  off  in  early  life,  while  his  opinions,  far  from  being 
matured  for  the  public  eye,  were  still  lying  crude  and  dis- 
jointed before  his  own  ;  for  most  part  written  down  in  the 
shape  of  detached  aphorisms,  '  none  of  them,'  as  he  says 
himself,  '  untrue  or  unimportant  to  his  own  mind,'  but  nat- 
urally requiring  to  be  remodelled,  expanded,  compressed,  as 
the  matter  cleared  up  more  and  more  into  logical  unity  ;  at 
best  but  fragments  of  a  great  scheme  which  he  did  not  live 
to  realise.  If  his  Editors,  Friedrich  Schlegel  and  Ludwig 
Tieck,  declined  commenting  on  these  Writings,  we  may  well 
be  excused  for  declining  to  do  so.  '  It  cannot  be  our  pur- 
'  pose  here,'  says  Tieck,  '  to  recommend  the  following  Works, 
'  or  to  judge  them  ;  probable  as  it  must  be  that  any  judg- 
'  ment  delivered  at  this  stage  of  the  matter  would  be  a  pre- 
'  mature  and  unripe  one  :  for  a  spirit  of  such  originality 
'  must  first  be  comprehended,  his  will  understood,  and  his 
'  loving  intention  felt  and  replied  to  ;  so  that  not  till  his 
•  ideas  have  taken  root  in  other  minds,  and  brought  forth 
4  new  ideas,  shall  we  see  rightly,  from  the  historical  sequence, 


NOVALIS. 


87 


i  what  place  lie  himself  occupied,  and  what  relation  to  his 
'  country  he  truly  bore.' 

Meanwhile,  Novalis  is  a  figure  of  such  importance  in  Ger- 
man Literature,  that  no  student  of  it  can  pass  him  by  without 
attention.  If  we  must  not  attempt  interpreting  this  Work 
for  our  readers,  we  are  bound  at  least  to  point  out  its  exist- 
ence, and  according  to  our  best  knowledge,  direct  such  of 
them  as  take  an  interest  in  the  matter  how  to  investigate 
it  farther  for  their  own  benefit.  For  this  purpose,  it  may 
be  well  that  we  leave  our  Author  to  speak  chiefly  for  him- 
self ;  subjoining  only  such  expositions  as  cannot  be  dispensed 
with  for  even  verbal  intelligibility,  and  as  we  can  otter  on 
our  own  surety  with  some  degree  of  confidence.  By  way 
of  basis  to  the  whole  inquiry,  we  prefix  some  particulars  of 
his  short  life  ;  a  part  of  our  task  which  Tieck's  clear  and 
graceful  Narrative,  given  as  '  Preface  to  the  Third  Edition.' 
renders  easy  for  us. 

Friedrich  von  Hardenberg,  better  known  in  Literature  by 
the  pseudonym  4  Novalis,'  was  born  on  the  2d  of  May  1772, 
at  a  country  residence  of  his  family  in  the  Grafschaft  of 
Mansfeld,  in  Saxony.  His  father,  who  had  been  a  soldier 
in  youth,  and  still  retained  a  liking  for  that  profession,  was 
at  this  time  Director  of  the  Saxon  Salt-works  ;  an  office  of 
some  considerable  trust  and  dignity.  Tieck  says,  '  he  was 
'  a  vigorous,  unweariedly  active  man,  of  open,  resolute  char- 
'  acter,  a  true  German.  His  religious  feelings  made  him  a 
'  member  of  the  Herrnhut  Communion  ;  yet  his  disposition 
'  continued  gay,  frank,  rugged  and  downright.'  The  mother 
also  was  distinguished  for  her  worth ;  '  a  pattern  of  noble 
piety  and  Christian  mildness  ; '  virtues  which  her  subsequent 
life  gave  opportunity  enough  for  exercising. 

On  the  young  Friedrich,  whom  we  may  continue  to  call 
Novalis,  the  qualities  of  his  parents  must  have  exercised 
more  than  usual  influence  ;  for  he  was  brought  up  in  the 
most  retired  manner,  with  scarcely  any  associate  but  a  sister 


88 


MISCELLANIES. 


one  year  older  than  himself,  and  the  two  brothers  that  were 
next  to  him  in  age-  A  decidedly  religious  temper  seems 
to  have  infused  itself,  under  many  benignant  aspects,  over 
the  whole  family :  in  Novalis  especially  it  continued  the. 
ruling  principle  through  life  ;  manifested  no  less  in  his  scien- 
tific speculations,  than  in  his  feelings  and  conduct.  In  child- 
hood he  is  said  to  have  been  remarkable  chiefly  for  the 
entire,  enthusiastic  affection  with  which  he  loved  his  mother ; 
and  for  a  certain  still,  secluded  disposition,  such  that  he  took 
no  pleasure  in  boyish  sports,  and  rather  shunned  the  society 
of  other  children.  Tieck  mentions  that,  till  his  ninth  year, 
he  was  reckoned  nowise  quick  of  apprehension  ;  but  at  this 
period,  strangely  enough,  some  violent  biliary  disease,  which 
had  almost  cut  him  off,  seemed  to  awaken  his  faculties  into 
proper  life,  and  he  became  the  readiest,  eagerest  learner  in 
all  branches  of  his  scholarship. 

In  his  eighteenth  year,  after  a  few  months  of  preparation 
in  some  Gymnasium,  the  only  instruction  he  appears  to  have 
received  in  any  public  school,  he  repaired  to  Jena ;  and  con- 
tinued there  for  three  years ;  after  which  he  spent  one  season 
in  the  Leipzig  University,  and  another,  '  to  complete  his 
studies,'  in  that  of  Wittenberg.  It  seems  to  have  been  at 
Jena  that  he  became  acquainted  with  Friedrich  Schlegel ; 
where  also,  we  suppose,  he  studied  under  Fichte.  For  both 
of  these  men  he  conceived  a  high  admiration  and  affection  ; 
and  both  of  them  had,  clearly  enough,  '  a  great  and  abiding 
effect  on  his  whole  life.'  Fichte,  in  particular,  whose  lofty 
eloquence  and  clear  calm  enthusiasm  are  said  to  have  made 
him  irresistible  as  a  teacher,1  had  quite  gained  Novalis  to 
his  doctrines  ;  indeed  the  WissenschaftsJehre,  which,  as  we 
are  told  of  the  latter,  '  he  studied  with  unwearied  zeal,'  ap- 
pears to  have  been  the  groundwork  of  all  his  future  spec- 

1  Schelling,  we  have  been  informed,  gives  account  of  Fichte  ami  his 
Witaenschiiftdvhri  t<>  the  following  effect:  '  The  Philosophy  of  Fichte  was 
Mike  lightning;  it  appeared  only  for  a  moment,  but  it  kindled  a  fire  which 
'will  burn  forever.' 


NOVALIS. 


89 


ulations  in  Philosophy.  Besides  these  metaphysical  inquiries, 
and  the  usual  attainments  in  classical  literature,  Novalis  seems 
'to  have  devoted  himself  with  ardour  to  the  Physical  Sci- 
ences, and  to  Mathematics  the  basis  of  them : '  at  an  early 
period  of  his  life,  he  had  read  much  of  History  '  with  ex- 
traordinary eagerness ; '  Poems  had  from  of  old  been  '  the 
delight  of  his  leisure  ; '  particularly  that  species  denominated 
Mahrchen  (Traditionary  Tale),  which  continued  a  favourite 
with  him  to  the  last ;  as  almost  from  infancy  it  had  been  a 
chosen  amusement  of  his  to  read  these  compositions,  and 
even  to  recite  such,  of  his  own  invention.  One  remarkable 
piece  of  that  sort  he  has  himself  left  us,  inserted  in  Heinrich 
von  Ofterdingen,  his  chief  literary  performance. 

But  the  time  had  now  arrived,  when  study  must  become 
subordinate  to  action,  and  what  is  called  a  profession  be  fixed 
upon.  At  the  breaking-out  of  the  French  War,  Novalis  had 
been  seized  with  a  strong  and  altogether  unexpected  taste 
for  a  military  life  :  however,  the  arguments  and  pressing 
entreaties  of  his  friends  ultimately  prevailed  over  this  whim ; 
it  seems  to  have  been  settled  that  he  should  follow  his  father's 
line  of  occupation  ;  and  so,  about  the  end  of  1794,  he  re- 
moved to  Arnstadt  in  Thuringia,  '  to  train  himself  in  prac- 
tical affairs  under  the  Kreis-Amtmann  Just.'  In  this  Kreis- 
Amtmann  (Manager  of  a  Circle)  he  found  a  wise  and  kind 
friend ;  applied  himself  honestly  to  business  ;  and  in  all  his 
serious  calculations  may  have  looked  forward  to  a  life  as 
smooth  and  commonplace  as  his  past  years  had  been.  One 
incident,  and  that  too  of  no  unusual  sort,  appears,  in  Tieck's 
opinion,  to  have  altered  the  whole  form  of  his  existence. 

'  It  was  not  very  long  after  his  arrival  at  Arnstadt,  when  in  a  coun- 
try mansion  of  the  neighbourhood,  he  became  acquainted  with  Sophie 

von  K  .   The  first  glance  of  this  fair  and  wonderfully  lovely  form 

was  decisive  for  his  whole  life ;  nay,  we  may  say  that  the  feeling, 
which  now  penetrated  and  inspired  him,  was  the  substance  and  es- 
sence of  his  whole  life.  Sometimes,  in  the  look  and  figure  of  a  child, 
there  will  stamp  itself  an  expression,  which,  as  it  is  too  angelic  and 
ethereally  beautiful,  we  are  forced  to  call  unearthly  or  celestial ;  and 


90 


MISCELLANIES. 


commonly,  at  sight  of  such  purified  and  almost  transparent  faces, 
there  comes  on  us  a  fear  that  they  are  too  tender  and  delicately  fash- 
ioned for  this  life ;  that  it  is  Death,  or  Immortality,  which  looks  forth 
so  expressively  on  us  from  these  glancing  eyes ;  and  too  often  a 
quick  decay  converts  our  mournful  foreboding  into  certainty.  Still 
more  affecting  are  such  figures,  when  their  first  period  is  happily 
passed  over,  and  they  come  before  us  blooming  on  the  eve  of  maid- 
hood.  All  persons  that  have  known  this  wondrous  loved  one  of  our 
Friend,  agree  in  testifying  that  no  description  can  express  in  what 
grace  and  celestial  harmony  the  fair  being  moved,  what  beauty  shone 
in  her,  what  softness  and  majesty  encircled  her.  Novalis  became  a 
poet  every  time  he  chanced  to  speak  of  it.  She  had  concluded  her 
thirteenth  year  when  he  first  saw  her :  the  spring  and  summer  of 
1795  were  the  blooming  time  of  his  life ;  every  hour  that  he  could 
spare  from  business  he  spent  in  Griiningen  :  and  in  the  fall  of  that 
same  year  he  obtained  the  wished-for  promise  from  Sophie's  parents.' 

Unhappily,  however,  these  halcyon  days  were  of  too  short 
continuance.  Soon  after  this,  Sophie  fell  dangerously  sick 
'  of  a  fever,  attended  with  pains  in  the  side ; '  and  her  lover 
had  the  worst  consequences  to  fear.  By  and  by,  indeed,  the 
fever  left  her ;  but  not  the  paiu,  '  which  by  its  violence  still 
spoiled  for  her  many  a  fair  hour,'  and  gave  rise  to  various 
apprehensions,  though  the  Physician  asserted  that  it  was  of 
no  importance.  Partly  satisfied  with  this  favourable  prog- 
nostication, Novalis  had  gone  to  Weissenfels,  to  his  parents ; 
and  was  full  of  business  ;  being  now  appointed  Auditor  in 
the  department  of  which  his  father  was  Director :  through 
winter  the  news  from  Griiningen  were  of  a  favourable  sort ; 
in  spring  he  visited  the.  family  himself,  and  found  his  So- 
phie to  all  appearance  well.  But  suddenly,  in  summer, 
his  hopes  and  occupations  were  interrupted  by  tidings  that 
'  she  was  in  Jena,  and  had  undergone  a  surgical  operation.' 
Her  disease  was  an  abscess  in  the  liver :  it  had  been  her 
wish  that  he  should  not  hear  of  her  danger  till  the  worst  were 
over.  The  Jena  Surgeon  gave  hopes  of  recovery  though  a 
slow  one ;  but  ere  long  the  operation  had  to  be  repeated,  and 
now  it  was  feared  that  his  patient's  strength  was  too  far  ex- 
hausted.   The  young  maiden  bore  all  this  with  inflexible 


NOVALIS. 


91 


courage  and  the  cheerfullest  resignation  :  her  Mother  and 
Sister,  Novalis,  with  his  Parents  and  two  of  his  Brothers,  all 
deeply  interested  in  the  event,  did  their  utmost  to  comfort 
her.  In  December,  by  her  own  wish,  she  returned  home  ; 
but  it  was  evident  that  she  grew  weaker  and  weaker.  Nova- 
lis  went  and  came  between  Griiningen  and  Weissenfels, 
where  also  he  found  a  house  of  mourning ;  for  Erasmus,  one 
of  these  two  Brothers,  had  long  been  sickly,  and  was  no"V>r 
believed  to  be  dying. 

'The  17th  of  March,'  says  Tieck,  'was  the  fifteenth  birthday  of 
his  Sophie ;  and  on  the  19th,  about  noon,  she  departed.  No  one  durst 
tell  Novalis  these  tidings;  at  last  his  Brother  Carl  undertook  it.  The 
poor  youth  shut  himself  up,  and  after  three  days  and  three  nights  of 
weeping,  set  out  for  Arnstadt,  that  there,  with  his  true  friend,  he 
might  be  near  the  spot,  which  now  hid  the  remains  of  what  was 
dearest  to  him.  On  the  14th  of  April,  his  Brother  Erasmus  also  left 
this  Avorld.  Novalis  wrote  to  inform  his  Brother  Carl  of  the  event, 
who  had  been  obliged  to  make  a  journey  into  Lower  Saxony  :  "  Be 
of  good  courage/'  said  he,  "  Erasmus  has  prevailed ;  the  flowers  of 
our  fair  garland  are  dropping  off  Here,  one  by  one,  that  they  may  be 
united  Yonder,  lovelier  and  forever."  ' 

Among  the  papers  published  in  these  Volumes  are  three 
letters  written  about  this  time,  which  mournfully  indicate 
the  author's  mood.  '  It  has  grown  Evening  around  me/  says 
he,  '  while  I  was  looking  into  the  red  of  Morning.  My  grief 
'  is  boundless  as  my  love.  For  three  years  she  has  been  my 
'  hourly  thought.  She  alone  bound  me  to  life,  to  the  country, 
'  to  my  occupations.  With  her  I  am  parted  from  all ;  for 
'  now  I  scarcely  have  myself  any  more.  But  it  has  grown 
'  Evening ;  and  I  feel  as  if  I  had  to  travel  early  ;  and  so  I 
'  would  fain  be  at  rest,  and  see  nothing  but  kind  faces  about 
'  me  ;  —  all  in  her  spirit  would  I  live,  be  soft  and  mild-heart- 
'  ed  as  she  was.'  And  again,  some  weeks  later  :  '  I  live  over 
'  the  old,  bygone  life  here,  in  still  meditation.  Yesterday  I 
4  was  twenty -five  years  old.  I  was  in  Griiningen,  and  stood 
'  beside  her  grave.  It  is  a  friendly  spot ;  enclosed  with  sim- 
'  pie  white  railing  ;  lies  apart  and  high.    There  is  still  room 


92 


MISCELLANIES. 


'  in  it.  The  village,  with  its  blooming  gardens,  leans  up 
'  round  the  hill ;  and  at  this  point  and  that,  the  eye  loses 
4  itself  in  blue  distances.  I  know  you  would  have  liked  to 
1  stand  by  me,  and  stick  the  flowers,  my  birthday  gifts,  one 
'  by  one  into  her  hillock.  This  time  two  years,  she  made  me 
'  a  gay  present,  with  a  flag  and  national  cockade  on  it.  To- 
'  day  her  parents  gave  me  the  little  things  which  she,  still 
'  joyfully,  had  received  on  her  last  birthday.  Friend,  —  it 
4  continues  Evening,  and  will  soon  be  Night  If  you  go 
'  away,  think  of  me  kindly,  and  visit,  when  you  return,  the 
'  still  house,  where  your  Friend  rests  forever,  with  the  ashes 
'  of  his  beloved.  Fare  you  well ! ' ! —  Nevertheless,  a  singular 
composure  came  over  him ;  from  the  very  depths  of  his  grief 
arose  a  peace  and  pure  joy,  such  as  till  then  he  had  never 
known. 

'In  this  season,'  observes  Tieck,  'Xovalis  lived  only  to  his  sorrow: 
it  was  natural  for  him  to  regard  the  visible  and  the  invisible  world  as 
one ;  and  to  distinguish  Life  and  Death  only  by  his  longing  for  the 
latter.  At  the  same  time  too,  Life  became  for  him  a  glorified  Life  ; 
and  his  whole  being  melted  away  as  into  a  bright,  conscious  vision 
of  a  higher  Existence.  From  the  sacredness  of  Sorrow,  from  heart- 
felt love  and  the  pious  wish  for  death,  his  temper  and  all  his  concep- 
tions are  to  be  explained  :  and  it  seems  possible  that  this  time,  with 
its  deep  griefs,  planted  in  him  the  germ  of  death,  if  it  was  not,  in 
any  case,  his  appointed  lot  to  be  so  soon  snatched  away  from  us. 

'  He  remained  many  weeks  in  Thuringia;  and  came  back  comfort- 
ed and  truly  purified,  to  his  engagements  ;  which  he  pursued  more 
zealously  than  ever,  though  he  now  regarded  himself  as  a  stranger 
on  the  earth.  In  this  period,  some  earlier,  many  later,  especially  in 
the  Autumn  of  this  year,  occur  most  of  those  compositions,  which, 
in  the  way  of  extract  and  selection,  we  have  here  given  to  the  Pub- 
lic, under  the  title  of  Fragments;  so  likewise  the  Hymns  to  the  Night,' 

Such  is  our  Biographer's  account  of  this  matter,  and  of 
the  weighty  inference  it  has  led  him  to.  We  have  detailed 
it  the  more  minutely,  and  almost  in  the  very  words  of  the 
text,  the  better  to  put  our  readers  in  a  condition  for  judg- 
ing on  what  Lrn>uinl>  Tieck  rests  his  opinion,  That  herein 
lies  the  key  to  the  whole  spiritual  history  of  Xovalis,  that 


:-3 


'  the  feeling  which  now  penetrated  and  inspired  him.  mar  be 
said  to  have  been  the  substance  of  his  Life.'  It  would  ill 
become  us  to  contradict  one  so  well  qualified  to  judge  of 
all  subjects,  and  who  enjoyed  such  peculiar  opportunities  for 
forming  a  right  judgment  of  this :  meanwhile  we  mar  say 
that,  to  our  own  minds,  after  all  consideration,  the  certainty 
of  this  hypothesis  will  nowise  become  clear.  Or  rather,  per- 
haps, it  is  to  the  expression,  to  the  too  determinate  and 
exclusive  language  in  which  the  hypothesis  is  worded,  that 
we  should  object:  for  so  plain  does  the  truth  of  the  case 
seem  to  us,  we  cannot  but  believe  that  Tieck  himself  would 
consent  to  modify  his  statement.  That  the  whole  philosoph- 
ical and  moral  existence  of  such  a  man  as  2sovalis  should 
have  been  shaped  and  determined  by  the  death  of  a  young 
girL  almost  a  child,  specially  distinguished,  so  far  as  is  shown, 
by  nothing  save  her  beauty,  which  at  any  rate  must  have 
been  very  short-lived,  —  will  doubtless  seem  to  every  one  a- 
singular  concatenation.  VTe  cannot  but  think  that  some  re- 
sult precisely  similar  in  moral  effect  might  have  been  attained 
by  many  different  means  :  nay  that  by  one  means  or  another, 
it  would  not  have  failed  to  be  attained-  For  spirits  like 
Novalis,  earthly  fortune  is  in  no  instance  so  sweet  and 
smooth,  that  it  does  not  by  and  by  teach  the  great  doctrine 
of  Entsagen.  of  1  Kenuneiation,'  by  which  alone,  as  a  wise 
man  well  known  to  Heir  Tieck  has  observed,  1  can  the  real 
entrance  on  Life  be  properly  said  to  begin/  Experience,  the 
grand  Schoolmaster,  seems  to  have  taught  Novalis  this  doc- 
trine very  early,  by  the  wreck  of  his  first  passionate  wish  ; 
and  herein  lies  the  real  influence  of  Sophie  von  K.  on  his 
character ;  an  influence  which,  as  we  imagine,  many  other 
things  might  and  would  have  equally  exerted :  for  it  is  less 
the  severity  of  the  Teacher  than  the  aptness  of  the  Pupil 
that  secures  the  lesson  ;  nor  do  the  purifying  effects  of  frus- 
trated Hope,  and  Affection  which  in  this  world  will  ever  be 
homeless,  depend  on  the  worth  or  loveliness  of  its  objects,  but 
on  that  of  the  heart  which  cherished  it,  and  can  draw  mild 


94 


MISCELLANIES. 


wisdom  from  so  stern  a  disappointment.  We  do  not  say  that 
Novalis  continued  the  same  as  if  this  young  maiden  had  not 
been  ;  causes  and  effects  connecting  every  man  and  thing 
with  every  other  extend  through  all  Time  and  Space ;  but 
surely  it  appears  unjust  to  represent  him  as  so  altogether 
pliant  in  the  hands  of  Accident ;  a  mere  pipe  for  Fortune  to 
play  tunes  on ;  and  which  sounded  a  mystic,  deep,  almost 
unearthly  melody,  simply  because  a  young  woman  was  beau- 
tiful and  mortal. 

We  feel  the  more  justified  in  these  hard-hearted  and  so 
unromantic  strictures,  on  reading  the  very  next  paragraph  of 
Tieck's  Narrative.  Directly  on  the  back  of  this  occurrence, 
Novalis  goes  to  Freyberg;  and  there  in  1798,  it  may  be  there- 
fore somewhat  more  or  somewhat  less  than  a  year  after  the 
death  of  his  first  love,  forms  an  acquaintance,  and  an  engage- 
ment to  marry,  with  a  '  Julie  von  Ch  ! '    Indeed,  ever 

afterwards,  to  the  end,  his  life  appears  to  have  been  more 
than  usually  cheerful  and  happy.  Tieck  knows  not  what 
well  to  say  of  this  betrothment,  which  in  the  eyes  of  most 
Novel-readers  will  have  so  shocking  an  appearance :  he  ad- 
mits that  '  perhaps  to  any  but  his  intimate  friends  it  may 
seem  singular ; '  asserts,  notwithstanding,  that  '  Sophie,  as 
'  may  be  seen  also  in  his  writings,  continued  the  centre  of  his 
'  thoughts  ;  nay,  as  one  departed,  she  stood  in  higher  rever- 
'  ence  with  him  than  when  visible  and  near ; '  and  hurrying 
on,  almost  as  over  an  unsafe  subject,  declares  that  Novalis 
felt  nevertheless  '  as  if  loveliness  of  mind  and  person  might, 
in  some  measure,  replace  his  loss ; '  and  so  leaves  us  to  our 
own  reflections  on  the  matter.  We  consider  it  as  throwing 
light  on  the  above  criticism ;  and  greatly  restricting  our 
acceptance  of  Tieck's  theory.  Yet  perhaps,  after  all,  it  is 
only  in  a  Minerva-Press  Novel,  or  to  the  more  tender  Imag- 
ination, that  such  a  proceeding  would  seem  very  blamable. 
Constancy,  in  its  true  sense,  may  be  called  the  root  of  all 
excellence ;  especially  excellent  is  constancy  in  active  well- 
doing, in  friendly  helpfulness  to  those  that  love  us,  and  to 


NOVALIS. 


95 


those  that  hate  us :  but  constancy  in  passive  suffering,  again, 
in  spite  of  the  high  value  put  upon  it  in  Circulating  Libra- 
ries, is  a  distinctly  inferior  virtue,  rather  an  accident  than  a 
virtue,  and  at  all  events  is  of  extreme  rarity  in  this  world. 
To  Novalis,  his  Sophie  might  still  be  as  a  saintly  presence, 
mournful  and  unspeakably  mild,  to  be  worshipped  in  the  in- 
most shrine  of  his  memory :  but  worship  of  this  sort  is  not 
man's  sole  business ;  neither  should  we  censure  Novalis  that  * 
he  dries  his  tears,  and  once  more  looks  abroad  with  hope  on 
the  earth,  which  is  still,  as  it  was  before,  the  strangest  com- 
plex of  mystery  and  light,  of  joy  as  well  as  sorrow.  '  Life 
belongs  to  the  living ;  and  he  that  lives  must  be  prepared  for 
vicissitudes.'  The  questionable  circumstance  with  Novalis 
-  is  his  perhaps  too  great  rapidity  in  that  second  courtship  ;  a 
fault  or  misfortune  the  more  to  be  regretted,  as  this  marriage 
also  was  to  remain  a  project,  and  only  the  anticipation  of  it 
to  be  enjoyed  by  him. 

It  was  for  the  purpose  of  studying  mineralogy,  under  the 
iamous  Werner,  that  Novalis  had  gone  to  Freyberg.  For  this 
science  he  had  great  fondness,  as  indeed  for  all  the  physical 
sciences  ;  which,  if  we  may  judge  from  his  writings,  he  seems 
to  have  prosecuted  on  a  great  and  original  principle,  very 
different  both  from  that  of  our  idle  theorisers  and  general- 
ises, and  that  of  the  still  more  melancholy  class  who  merely 
1  collect  facts,'  and  for  the  torpor  or  total  extinction  of  the 
thinking  faculty,  strive  to  make  up  by  the  more  assiduous 
use  of  the  blowpipe  and  goniometer.  The  commencement 
of  a  Avork,  entitled  the  Disciples  at  Sais,  intended,  as  Tieck 
informs  us,  to  be  a  '  Physical  Romance,'  was  written  in  Frey- 
berg, at  this  time  :  but  it  lay  unfinished,  unprosecuted ;  and 
now  comes  before  us  as  a  very  mysterious  fragment,  dis- 
closing scientific  depths,  which  we  have  not  light  to  see  into, 
much  less  means  to  fathom  and  accurately  measure.  The 
various  hypothetic  views  of  '  Nature,'  that  is,  of  the  visible 
Creation,  which  are  here  given  out  in  the  words  of  the 
several  '  Pupils,'  differ,  almost  all  of  them,  more  or  less^ 


96 


MISCELLANIES. 


from  any  that  we  have  ever  elsewhere  met  with.  To  this 
work  we  shall  have  occasion  to  refer  more  particularly  in 
the  sequel. 

The  acquaintance  which  Novalis  formed,  soon  after  this, 
with  the  elder  Schlegel  (August  Wilhelm),  and  still  more 
that  of  Tieck,  whom  also  he  first  met  in  Jena,  seems  to  have 
operated  a  considerable  diversion  in  his  line  of  study.  Tieck 
and  the  Schlegels,  with  some  less  active  associates,  among 
whom  are  now  mentioned  Wackenroder  and  Novalis,  were 
at  this  time  engaged  in  their  far-famed  campaign  against 
Duncedom,  or  what  called  itself  the  '  Old  School'  of  Litera- 
ture ;  which  old  and  rather  despicable  '  School '  they  had 
already,  both  by  regular  and  guerilla  warfare,  reduced  to 
great  straits ;  as  ultimately,  they  are  reckoned  to  have  - 
succeeded  in  utterly  extirpating  it,  or  at  least  driving  it 
back  to  the  very  confines  of  its  native  Cimmeria.1  It  seems 
to  have  been  in  connexion  with  these  men,  that  Novalis  first 
came  before  the  world  as  a  writer :  certain  of  his  Fragments 
under  the  title  of  Bluthenstaub  (Pollen  of  Flowers),  his 
Hymns  to  the  Night  and  various  poetical  compositions  were 
sent  forth  in  F.  Schlegel's  Musen-Almanach  and  other  peri- 
odicals under  the  same  or  kindred  management.  Novalis 
himself  seems  to  profess  that  it  was  Tieck's  influence  which 
chiefly  '  reawakened  Poetry  in  him.'  As  to  what  reception 
these  pieces  met  with,  we  have  no  information  :  however, 
Novalis  seems  to  have  been  ardent  and  diligent  in  his 
new  pursuit,  as  in  his  old  ones;  and  no  less  happy  than 
diligent. 

'In  the  summer  of  1800,'  says  Tieck,  'I  saw  him  for  the  first 
time,  while  visiting  my  friend  Wilhelm  Schlegel;  and  our  acquaint- 
ance soon  became  the  most  confidential  friendship.  They  were 
bright  days  those,  which  we  passed  with  Schlegel,  Schelling  and 
some  other  friends.  On  my  return  homewards,  I  visited  him  in  his 
house,  and  made  acquaintance  with  his  family.  Here  he  read  me 
the  Disciples  at  Sais,  and  many  of  his  Fragments.  He  escorted  me 
as  far  as  Halle ;  and  we  enjoyed  in  Giebichenstein,  in  the  Riech- 
1  See  Appendix  I.  to  Vol.  I.  §  Tieck. 


NOVALIS. 


07 


ardts'  house,  some  other  delightful  hours.  Ahout  this  time,  the 
first  thought  of  his  Ofterdingen  had  occurred.  At  an  earlier  period, 
certain  of  his  Spiritual  Songs  had  been  composed  :  they  were  to 
form  part  of  a  Christian  Hymn-book,  which  he  meant  to  accompany 
with  a  collection  of  Sermons.  For  the  rest,  he  was  very  diligent  in 
his  professional  labours  ;  whatever  he  did  was  done  with  the  heart ; 
the  smallest  concern  was  not  insignificant  to  him.' 

The  professional  labours  here  alluded  to,  seem  to  have 
left  much  leisure  on  his  hands  ;  room  for  frequent  change* 
of  place,  and  even  of  residence.  Not  long  afterwards,  we 
find  him  'living  for  a  long  while  in  a  solitary  spot  of  the 
5  Giildne  Aue  in  Thuringia,  at  the  foot  of  the  KyfF hauser 
'  Mountain ; '  his  chief  society  two  military  men,  subse- 
quently Generals ;  '  in  which  solitude  great  part  of  his 
Ofterdingen  was  written.'  The  first  volume  of  this  Hein- 
rich  von  Ofterdingen,  a  sort  of  Art-Romance,  intended,  as 
he  himself  said,  to  be  an  '  Apotheosis  of  Poetry,'  was  ere- 
long published ;  under  what  circumstances,  or  with  what 
result,  we  have,  as  before,  no  notice.  Tieck  had  for  some 
time  been  resident  in  Jena,  and  at  intervals  saw  much  of 
Novalis.  On  preparing  to  quit  that  abode,  he  went  to  pay 
him  a  farewell  visit  at  Weissenfels ;  found  him  '  somewhat 

*  paler,'  but  full  of  gladness  and  hope ;  '  quite  inspired  with 

*  plans  of  his  future  happiness ;  his  house  was  already  fitted 
'  up ;  in  a  few  months  he  was  to  be  wedded  :  no  less  zeal- 
I  ously  did  he  speak  of  the  speedy  conclusion  of  Ofterdingen, 
'  and  other  books ;  his  life  seemed  expanding  in  the  richest 
'activity  and  love.'  This  was  in  1800:  four  years  ago 
Novalis  had  longed  and  looked  for  death,  and  it  was  not 
appointed  him ;  now  life  is  again  rich  and  far-extending  in 
his  eyes,  and  its  close  is  at  hand.  Tieck  parted  with  him, 
and  it  proved  to  be  forever. 

In  the  month  of  August,  Novalis,  preparing  for  his  jour- 
ney to  Freyberg  on  so  joyful  an  occasion,  was  alarmed 
with  an  appearance  of  blood  proceeding  from  the  lungs. 
The  Physician  treated  it  as  a  slight  matter ;  nevertheless, 
the  marriage  was  postponed.    He  went  to  Dresden  with  his 

VOL.  II.  7 


9J8 


MISCELLANIES. 


Parents,  for  medical  advice  ;  abode  there  for  some  time  in 
no  improving  state  ;  on  learning  the  accidental  death  of  a 
young  brother  at  home,  he  ruptured  a  blood-vessel ;  and  the 
Doctor  then  declared  his  malady  incurable.  This,  as  usual 
in  such  maladies,  was  nowise  the  patient's  own  opinion  ;  he 
wished  to  try  a  warmer  climate,  but  was  thought  too  weak 
for  the  journey.  In  January  (1801)  he  returned  home, 
visibly,  to  all  but  himself,  in  rapid  decline.  His  bride  had 
already  been  to  see  him,  in  Dresden.  We  may  give  the  rest 
in  Tieck's  words  : 

'  The  nearer  he  approached  his  end,  the  more  confidently  did  he 
expect  a  speedy  recovery ;  for  the  cough  diminished,  and  excepting 
languor,  he  had  no  feeling  of  sickness.  With  the  hope  and  the  long- 
ing for  life,  new  talent  and  fresh  strength  seemed  also  to  awaken  in 
him  ;  he  thought,  with  renewed  love,  of  all  his  projected  labours  ;  he 
determined  on  writing  Ofterdingen  over  again  from  the  very  begin- 
ning; and  shortly  before  his  death,  he  said  on  one  occasion,  "Never 
till  now  did  I  know  what  Poetry  was ;  innumerable  Songs  and 
Poems,  and  of  quite  different  stamp  from  any  of  my  former  ones, 
have  arisen  in  me."  From  the  nineteenth  of  March,  the  death-day 
of  his  Sophie,  he  became  visibly  weaker;  many  of  his  friends  visited 
him  ;  and  he  felt  great  joy  when,  on  the  twenty-first,  his  true  and 
oldest  friend,  Friedrich  Schlegel,  came  to  him  from  Jena.  With  him 
he  conversed  at  great  length ;  especially  upon  their  several  literary 
operations.  During  these  days  he  was  very  lively;  his  nights  too 
were  quiet ;  and  he  enjoyed  pretty  sound  sleep.  On  the  twenty- 
fifth,  about  six  in  the  morning,  he  made  his  brother  hand  him  cer- 
tain books,  that  he  might  look  for  something ;  then  he  ordered 
breakfast,  and  talked  cheerfully  till  eight;  towards  nine  he  bade  his 
brother  play  a  little  to  him  on  the  harpsichord,  and  in  the  course  of 
the  music  fell  asleep.  Friedrich  Schlegel  soon  afterwards  came  into 
the  room,  and  found  him  quietly  sleeping  :  this  sleep  lasted  till  near 
twelve,  when  without  the  smallest  motion  he  passed  away,  and,  un- 
changed in  death,  retained  his  common  friendly  look  as  if  he  yet 
lived. 

'So  died,'  continues  the  affectionate  Biographer,  'before  he  had 
completed  Ins  twenty-ninth  year,  this  our  Friend ;  in  whom  his 
extensive  acquirements,  his  philosophical  talent  and  his  poetic  genius 
must  alike  obtain  our  love  and  admiration.  As  he  had  so  far  outrun 
his  time,  our  country  might  have  expected  extraordinary  things 
from  such  gifts,  had  this  early  death  not  overtaken  him  :  as  it  is, 


NOVALIS. 


99 


the  unfinished  Writings  he  left  behind  him  have  already  had  a  wide 
influence ;  and  many  of  his  great  thoughts  will  yet,  in  time  coming, 
lend  their  inspiration,  and  noble  minds  and  deep  thinkers  will  be 
enlightened  and  enkindled  by  the  sparks  of  his  genius. 

'  Novalis  was  tall,  slender  and  of  noble  proportions.  He  wore  his 
light-brown  hair  in  long  clustering  locks,  which  at  that  time  was  less 
unusual  than  it  would  be  now ;  his  hazel  eye  was  clear  and  glancing; 
and  the  colour  of  his  face,  especially  of  the  fine  brow,  almost  trans- 
parent. Hand  and  foot  were  somewhat  too  large,  and  without  fine 
character.  His  look  was  at  all  times  cheerful  and  kind.  For  those 
who  distinguish  a  man  only  in  so  far  as  he  puts  himself  forward,  or 
by  studious  breeding,  by  fashionable  bearing,  endeavours  to  shine 
or  to  be  singular,  Novalis  was  lost  in  the  crowd  :  to  the  more  prac- 
tised eye,  again,  he  presented  a  figure  which  might  be  called  beauti- 
ful. In  outline  and  expression,  his  face  strikingly  resembled  that 
of  the  Evangelist  John,  as  we  see  him  in  the  large  uoble  Painting  by 
Albrecht  Diirer,  preserved  at  Xiirnberg  and  Munchen. 

'  In  speaking,  he  was  lively  and  loud,  his  gestures  strong.  I  never 
saw  him  tired :  though  we  had  talked  till  far  in  the  night,  it  was  still 
only  on  purpose  that  he  stopped,  for  the  sake  of  rest,  and  even  then 
lie  used  to  read  before  sleeping.  Tedium  he  never  felt,  even  in  op- 
pressive company,  among  mediocre  men ;  for  he  was  sure  to  find 
out  one  or  other,  who  coidd  give  him  yet  some  new  piece  of  knowl- 
edge, such  as  he  could  turn  to  use,  insignificant  as  it  might  seem. 
His  kindliness,  his  frank  bearing,  made  him  a  universal  favourite  :  his 
skill  in  the  art  of  social  intercourse  was  so  great,  that  smaller  minds 
did  not  perceive  how  high  he  stood  above  them.  Though  in  conver- 
sation he  delighted  most  to  unfold  the  deeps  of  the  soul,  and  spoke  as 
inspired  of  the  regions  of  invisible  worlds,  yet  was  he  mirthful  as  a 
child;  would  jest  in  free  artless  gaiety,  and  heartily  give-in  to  the 
jestings  of  his  company.  Without  vanity,  without  learned  haughti- 
ness, far  from  every  affectation  and  hypocrisy,  he  was  a  genuine, 
true  man,  the  purest  and  loveliest  embodiment  of  a  high  immortal 
spirit.' 

So  much  for  the  outward  figure  and  history  of  Novalis. 
Respecting  his  inward  structure  and  significance,  which  our 
readers  are  here  principally  interested  to  understand,  we 
have  already  acknowledged  that  we  had  no  complete  insight 
to  boast  of.  The  slightest  perusal  of  his  "Writings  indicates 
to  us  a  mind'  of  wonderful  depth  and  originality ;  but  at  the 
same  time,  of  a  nature  or  habit  so  abstruse,  and  altogether 


100 


MISCELLANIES. 


different  from  anything  we  ourselves  have  notice  or  expe- 
rience of,  that  to  penetrate  fairly  into  its  essential  charac- 
ter, much  more  to  picture  it  forth  in  visual  distinctness, 
would  be  an  extremely  difficult  task.  Nay  perhaps,  if 
attempted  by  the  means  familiar  to  us,  an  impossible  task  : 
for  Novalis  belongs  to  that  class  of  persons,  who  do  not 
recognise  the  '  syllogistic  method '  as  the  chief  organ  for 
investigating  truth,  or  feel  themselves  bound  at  all  times  to 
stop  short  where  its  light  fails  them.  Many  of  his  opinions 
he  would  despair  of  proving  in  the  most  patient  Court  of 
Law ;  and  would  remain  well  content  that  they  should  be 
disbelieved  there.  He  much  loved,  and  had  assiduously 
studied,  Jacob  Bbhme  and  other  mystical  writers ;  and  was, 
openly  enough,  in  good  part  a  Mystic  himself.  Not  indeed 
what  we  English,  in  common  speech,  call  a  Mystic ;  which 
means  only  a  man  whom  we  do  not  understand,  and,  in 
self-defence,  reckon  or  would  fain  reckon  a  Dunce.  No- 
valis was  a  Mystic,  or  had  an  affinity  with  Mysticism,  in  the 
primary  and  true  meaning  of  that  word,  exemplified  in  some 
shape  among  our  own  Puritan  Divines,  and  which  at  this 
day  carries  no  opprobrium  with  it  in  Germany,  or,  except 
among  certain  more  unimportant  classes,  in  any  other  coun- 
try. Nay,  in  this  sense,  great  honours  are  recorded  of 
Mysticism :  Tasso,  as  may  be  seen  in  several  of  his  prose 
writings,  was  professedly  a  Mystic ;  Dante  is  regarded  as 
a  chief  man  of  that  class. 

Nevertheless,  with  all  due  tolerance  or  reverence  for  No- 
valis's  Mysticism,  the  question  still  returns  on  us :  How  shall 
we  understand  it,  and  in  any  measure  shadow  it  forth  ?  How7 
may  that  spiritual  condition,  which  by  its  own  account  is  like 
pure  Light,  colourless,  formless,  infinite,  be  represented  by 
mere  Logic-Painters,  mere  Engravers  we  might  say,  who, 
except  copper  and  burin,  producing  the  most  finite  black-on- 
white,  have  no  means  of  representing  anything?  Novalis 
himself  has  a  line  or  two,  and  no  more,  expressly  on  Mysti- 
cism :  '  What  is  Mysticism  ? '  asks  he.    '  What  is  it  that 


NOVALIS. 


101 


'  should  come  to  be  treated  mystically  ?  Religion,  Love,  Na- 
'  ture,  Polity.  —  All  select  things  (alles  Auserwahlte)  have  a 
;  reference  to  Mysticism.  If  all  men  were  but  one  pair  of 
'  lovers,  the  difference  between  Mysticism  and  Non-Mysticism 
'  were  at  an  end.'  1  In  which  little  sentence,  unhappily,  our 
reader  obtains  no  clearness  ;  feels  rather  as  if  he  were  look- 
ing into  darkness  visible.  We  must  entreat  him,  neverthe- 
less, to  keep  up  his  spirits  in  this  business ;  and  above  all,  to 
assist  us  with  his  friendliest,  cheerfullest  endeavour :  perhaps 
some  faint  far-off  view  of  that  same  mysterious  Mysticism 
may  at  length  rise  upon  us. 

To  ourselves  it  somewhat  illustrates  the  nature  of  No- 
valis's  opinions,  when  we  consider  the  then  and  present  state 
of  German  metaphysical  science  generally ;  and  the  fact, 
stated  above,  that  he  gained  his  first  notions  on  this  subject 
from  Fichte's  Wissenschaftslehre.  It  is  true,  as  Tieck  re- 
marks, '  he  sought  to  open  for  himself  a  new  path  in  Philos- 
ophy ;  to  unite  Philosophy  with  Religion : '  and  so  diverged 
in  some  degree  from  his  first  instructor ;  or,  as  it  more  prob- 
ably seemed  to  himself,  prosecuted  Fichte's  scientific  inquiry 
into  its  highest  practical  results.  At  all  events,  his  meta- 
physical creed,  so  far  as  we  can  gather  it  from  these  Writings, 
appears  everywhere  in  its  essential  lineaments  synonymous 
with  what  little  we  understand  of  Fichte's,  and  might  indeed, 
safely  enough  for  our  present  purpose,  be  classed  under  the 
head  of  Kantism,  or  German  metaphysics  generally. 

Now,  without  entering  into  the  intricacies  of  German  Phi- 
losophy, we  need  here  only  advert  to  the  character  of  Ideal- 
ism, on  which  it  is  everywhere  founded,  and  which  univer- 
sally pervades  it.  In  all  German  systems,  since  the  time  of 
Kant,  it  is  the  fundamental  principle  to  deny  the  existence 
of  Matter  ;  or  rather  we  should  say,  to  believe  it  in  a  radi- 
cally different  sense  from  that  in  which  the  Scotch  Philoso- 
pher strives  to  demonstrate  it,  and  the  English  Unphilosopher 
believes  it  without  demonstration.  To  any  of  our  readers, 
who  has  dipped  never  so  slightly  into  metaphysical  reading, 


102 


MISCELLANIES. 


this  Idealism  will  be  no  inconceivable  thing.  Indeed  it  is 
singular  how  widely  diffused,  and  under  what  different  as- 
pects, we  meet  with  it  among  the  most  dissimilar  classes  of 
mankind.  Our  Bishop  Berkeley  seems  to  have  adopted  it 
from  religious  inducements :  Father  Boscovich  was  led  to  a 
very  cognate  result,  in  his  Theoria  Philosophies  Naturalis, 
from  merely  mathematical  considerations.  Of  the  ancient 
Pyrrho,  or  the  modern  Hume,  we  do  not  speak  :  but  in  the 
opposite  end  of  the  Earth,  as  Sir  W.  Jones  informs  us,  a 
similar  theory,  of  immemorial  age,  prevails  among  the  the- 
ologians of  Hindostan.  Nay,  Professor  Stewart  has  declared 
his  opinion,  that  whoever  at  some  time  of  his  life  has  not 
entertained  this  theory,  may  reckon  that  he  has  yet  shown 
no  talent  for  metaphysical  research.  Neither  is  it  any  argu- 
ment against  the  Idealist  to  say  that,  since  he  denies  the 
absolute  existence  of  Matter,  he  ought  in  conscience  to  deny 
its  relative  existence  ;  and  plunge  over  precipices,  and  run 
himself  through  with  swords,  by  way  of  recreation,  since 
these,  like  all  other  material  things,  are  only  phantasms  and 
spectra,  and  therefore  of  no  consequence.  If  a  man,  cor- 
poreally taken,  is  but  a  phantasm  and  spectrum  himself,  all 
this  will  ultimately  amount  to  much  the  same  as  it  did  before. 
Yet  herein  lies  Dr.  Reid's  grand  triumph  over  the  Sceptics  ; 
which  is  as  good  as  no  triumph  whatever.  For  as  to  the 
argument  which  he  and  his  followers  insist  on,  under  all  pos- 
sible variety  of  figures,  it  amounts  only  to  this  very  plain 
consideration,  that  '  men  naturally,  and  without  reasoning, 
believe  in  the  existence  of  Matter ; '  and  seems,  philosoph- 
ically speaking,  not  to  have  any  value  ;  nay,  the  introduction 
of  it  into  Philosophy  may  be  considered  as  an  act  of  suicide 
on  the  part  of  that  science,  the  life  and  business  of  which, 
that  of  'interpreting  Appearances,'  is  hereby  at  an  end. 
Curious  it  is,  moreover,  to  observe  how  these  Commonsense 
Philosophers,  men  who  brag  chiefly  of  their  irrefragable 
logic,  and  keep  watch  and  ward,  as  if  this  were  their  special 
trade,  against  '  Mysticism '  and  '  Visionary  Theories,'  are 


NOVALIS.  103 

themselves  obliged  to  base  their  whole  system  on  Mysticism, 
and  a  Theory  ;  on  Faith,  in  short,  and  that  of  a  very  com- 
prehensive kind  ;  the  Faith,  namely,  either  that  man's  Senses 
are  themselves  Divine,  or  that  they  afford  not  only  an  honest, 
but  a  literal  representation  of  the  workings  of  some  Divinity. 
So  true  is  it  that  for  these  men  also,  all  knowledge  of  the 
visible  rests  on  belief  of  the  invisible,  and  derives  its  first 
meaning  and  certainty  therefrom ! 

The  Idealist,  again,  boasts  that  his  Philosophy  is  Transcen- 
dental, that  is,  '  ascending  beyond  the  senses ; '  which,  he  as- 
serts, all  Philosophy,  properly  so  called,  by  its  nature  is  and 
must  be:  and  in  this  way  he  is  led  to  various  unexpected 
conclusions.  To  a  Transcendentalist,  Matter  has  an  exist- 
ence, but  only  as  a  Phenomenon :  were  we  not  there,  neither 
would  it  be  there ;  it  is  a  mere  Relation,  or  rather  the  result 
of  a  Relation  between  our  living  Souls  and  the  great  First 
Cause ;  and  depends  for  its  apparent  qualities  on  our  bodily 
and  mental  organs ;  having  itself  no  intrinsic  qualities ;  being, 
in  the  common  sense  of  that  word,  Nothing.  The  tree  is  green 
and  hard,  not  of  its  own  natural  virtue,  but  simply  because  my 
eye  and  my  hand  are  fashioned  so  as  to  discern  such  and  such 
appearances  under  such  and  such  conditions.  Nay,  as  an  Ideal- 
ist might  say,  even  on  the  most  popular  grounds,  must  it  not 
be  so  ?  Bring  a  sentient  Being,  with  eyes  a  little  different, 
with  fingers  ten  times  harder  than  mine  ;  and  to  him  that  Thing 
which  I  call  Tree  shall  be  yellow  and  soft,  as  truly  as  to  me 
it  is  green  and  hard.  Form  his  Nervous-structure  in  all 
points  the  reverse  of  mine,  and  this  same  Tree  shall  not  be 
combustible  or  heat-producing,  but  dissoluble  and  cold-pro- 
ducing, not  high  and  convex,  but  deep  and  concave  ;  shall 
simply  have  all  properties  exactly  the  reverse  of  those  I 
attribute  to  it.  There  is,  in  fact,  says  Fichte,  no  Tree  there  ; 
but  only  a  Manifestation  of  Power  from  something  which  is 
not  I.  The  same  is  true  of  material  Nature  at  large,  of  the 
whole  visible  Universe,  with  all  its  movements,  figures,  acci- 
dents and  qualities  ;  all  are  Impressions  produced  on  me  by 


104 


MISCELLANIES. 


something  different  from  me.  This,  we  suppose,  may  be  the 
foundation  of  what  Fichte  means  by  his  far-famed  Ich  and 
Nicht-Ich  (I  and  Not-I)  ;  words  which,  taking  lodging  (to 
use  the  Hudibrastic  phrase)  in  certain  '  heads  that  were  to 
be  let  unfurnished,'  occasioned  a  hollow  echo,  as  of  Laughter, 
from  the  empty  Apartments ;  though  the  words  are  in  them- 
selves quite  harmless,  and  may  represent  the  basis  of  a  met- 
aphysical Philosophy  as  fitly  as  any  other  words.  But  far- 
ther, and  what  is  still  stranger  than  such  Idealism,  according 
to  these  Kantean  systems,  the  organs  of  the  Mind  too,  what 
is  called  the  Understanding,  are  of  no  less  arbitrary,  and,  as 
it  were,  accidental  character  than  those  of  the  Body.  Time 
and  Space  themselves  are  not  external  but  internal  entities  : 
they  have  no  outward  existence,  there  is  no  Time  and  no 
Space  out  of  the  mind ;  they  are  mere  forms  of  man's  spiritual 
being,  laws  under  which  his  thinking  nature  is  constituted  to 
act.  This  seems  the  hardest  conclusion  of  all ;  but  it  is  an 
important  one  with  Kant;  and  is  not  given  forth  as  a  dogma; 
but  carefully  deduced  in  his  Gritik  der  Reinen  Vernunft  with 
great  precision,  and  the  strictest  form  of  argument. 

The  reader  would  err  widely  who  supposed  that  this  Tran- 
scendental system  of  Metaphysics  was  a  mere  intellectual 
card-castle,  or  logical  hocus-pocus,  contrived  from  sheer  idle- 
ness and  for  sheer  idleness,  being  without  any  bearing  on  the 
practical  interests  of  men.  On  the  contrary,  however  false, 
or  however  true,  it  is  the  most  serious  in  its  purport  of  all 
Philosophies  propounded  in  these  latter  centuries  ;  has  been 
taught  chiefly  by  men  of  the  loftiest  and  most  earnest  char- 
acter ;  and  does  bear,  with  a  direct  and  highly  comprehen- 
sive influence,  on  the  most  vital  interests  of  men.  To  say 
nothing  of  the  views  it  opens  in  regard  to  the  course  and 
management  of  what  is  called  Natural  Science,  we  cannot 
but  perceive  that  its  effects,  for  such  as  adopt  it,  on  Morals 
and  Religion,  must  in  these  days  be  of  almost  boundless  im- 
portance. To  take  only  that  last  and  seemingly  strangest 
doctrine,  for  example,  concerning  Time  and  Space,  we  shall 


NOVALIS. 


105 


find  that  to  the  Kantist  it  yields,  almost  immediately,  a  re- 
markable result  of  this  sort.  If  Time  and  Space  have  no 
absolute  existence,  no  existence  out  of  our  minds,  it  removes 
a  stumbling-block  from  the  very  threshold  of  our  Theology. 
For  on  this  ground,  when  we  say  that  the  Deity  is  omnipres- 
ent and  eternal,  that  with  Him  it  is  a  universal  Here  and 
Now,  we  say  nothing  wonderful ;  nothing  but  that  He  also 
created  Time  and  Space,  that  Time  and  Space  are  not  laws 
of  His  being,  but  only  of  ours.  Nay  to  the  Transcendental- 
ist,  clearly  enough,  the  whole  question  of  the  origin  and 
existence  of  Nature  must  be  greatly  simplified :  the  old  hos- 
tility of  Matter  is  at  an  end,  for  Matter  is  itself  annihilated  ; 
and  the  black  Spectre,  Atheism,  '  with  all  its  sickly  dews,' 
melts  into  nothingness  forever.  But  farther,  if  it  be,  as 
Kant  maintains,  that  the  logical  mechanism  of  the  mind  is 
arbitrary,  so  to  speak,  and  might  have  been  made  different, 
it  will  follow,  that  all  inductive  conclusions,  all  conclusions  of 
the  Understanding,  have  only  a  relative  truth,  are  true  only 
*  for  us,  and  if  some  other  thing  be  true.  Thus  far  Hume 
and  Kant  go  together,  in  this  branch  of  the  inquiry :  but 
here  occurs  the  most  total,  diametrical  divergence  between 
them.  "We  allude  to  the  recognition,  by  these  Transcenden- 
talists,  of  a  higher  faculty  in  man  than  Understanding ; 
of  Reason  (  Vernunfi),  the  pure,  ultimate  light  of  our  na- 
ture ;  wherein,  as  they  assert,  lies  the  foundation  of  all 
Poetry,  Virtue,  Religion ;  things  which  are  properly  beyond 
the  province  of  the  Understanding,  of  which  the  Understand- 
ing can  take  no  cognisance,  except  a  false  one.  The  elder 
Jacobi,  who  indeed  is  no  Kantist,  says  once,  we  remember : 
'  It  is  the  instinct  of  Understanding  to  contradict  Reason.' 
Admitting  this  last  distinction  and  subordination,  supposing  it 
scientifically  demonstrated,  what  numberless  and  weightiest 
consequences  would  follow  from  it  alone  !  These  we  must 
leave  the  considerate  reader  to  deduce  for  himself ;  observing 
only  farther,  that  the  Teologia  Mistica,  so  much  venerated  by 
Tasso  in  his  philosophical  writings  ;  the  '  Mysticism '  alluded 


106 


MISCELLANIES. 


to  by  Novalis;  and  generally  all  true  Christian  Faith  and 
Devotion,  appear,  so  far  as  we  can  see,  more  or  less  included 
in  this  doctrine  of  the  Transcendentalists ;  under  their  sev- 
eral shapes,  the  essence  of  them  all  being  what  is  here  desig- 
nated by  the  name  Reason,  and  set  forth  as  the  true  sovereign 
of  man's  mind. 

How  deeply  these  and  the  like  principles  had  impressed 
themselves  .on  Novalis,  we  see  more  and  more,  the  farther 
we  study  his  Writings.  Naturally  a  deep,  religious,  con- 
templative spirit ;  purified  also,  as  we  have  seen,  by  harsh 
Affliction,  and  familiar  in  the  '  Sanctuary  of  Sorrow,'  he 
comes  before  us  as  the  most  ideal  of  all  Idealists.  For 
him  the  material  Creation  is  but  an  Appearance,  a  typical 
shadow  in  which  the  Deity  manifests  himself  to  man.  Not 
only  has  the  unseen  world  a  reality,  but  the  only  reality : 
the  rest  being  not  metaphorically,  but  literally  and  in  scien- 
tific strictness,  '  a  show  ; '  in  the  words  of  the  Poet,  '  Schall 
und  Rauch  umnebelnd  Himmels  Gluth,  Sound  and  Smoke 
overclouding  the  splendour  of  Heaven.'  The  Invisible 
World  is  near  us  :  or  rather  it  is  here,  in  us  and  about  us ; 
were  the  fleshly  coil  removed  from  our  Soul,  the  glories  of 
the  Unseen  were  even  now  around  us ;  as  the  Ancients 
fabled  of  the  Spheral  Music.  Thus,  not  in  word  only,  but 
in  truth  and  sober  belief,  he  feels  himself*  encompassed  by 
the  Godhead  ;  feels  in  every  thought,  that  '  in  Him  he  lives, 
moves  and  has  his  being.' 

On  his  Philosophic  and  Poetic  procedure,  all  this  has  its 
natural  influence.  The  aim  of  Novalis's  whole  Philosophy, 
we  might  say,  is  to  preach  and  establish  the  Majesty  of 
Reason,  in  that  stricter  sense  ;  to  conquer  for  it  all  provinces 
of  human  thought,  and  everywhere  reduce  its  vassal,  Under- 
standing, into  fealty,  the  right  and  only  useful  relation  for  it. 
Mighty  tasks  in  this  sort  lay  before  himself ;  of  which,  in 
these  Writings  of  his,  we  trace  only  scattered  indications. 
In  fact,  all  that  he  has  left  is  in  the  shape  of  Fragment ;  de- 
tached expositions  and  combinations,  deep,  brief  glimpses : 


NOVALIS. 


107 


but  such  seems  to  be  their  general  tendency.  One  character 
to  be  noted  in  many  of  these,  often  too  obscure  speculations, 
is  his  peculiar  manner  of  viewing  Nature  :  his  habit,  as  it 
were,  of  considering  Nature  rather  in  the  concrete,  not  ana- 
lytically and  as  a  divisible  Aggregate,  but  as  a  self-sub- 
sistent  universally  connected  Whole.  This  also  is  perhaps 
partly  the  fruit  of  his  Idealism.  '  He  had  formed  the 
Plan,'  we  are  informed,  '  of  a  peculiar  Encyclopedical 
'  Work,  in  which  experiences  and  ideas  from  all  the  dif- 
'  ferent  sciences  were  mutually  to  elucidate,  confirm  and 
'  enforce  each  other.'  In  this  work  he  had  even  made 
some  progress.  Many  of  the  '  Thoughts,'  and  short  Apho- 
ristic observations,  here  published,  were  intended  for  it ; 
of  such,  apparently,  it  was,  for  the  most  part,  to  have  con- 
sisted. 

As  a  Poet,  Novalis  is  no  less  Idealistic  than  as  a  Philoso- 
pher. His  poems  are  breathings  of  a  high  devout  soul, 
feeling  always  that  here  he  has  no  home,  but  looking,  as  in 
,  clear  vision,  to  a  '  city  that  hath  foundations.'  He  loves  ex- 
ternal Nature  with  a  singular  depth  ;  nay,  we  might  say,  he 
reverences  her,  and  holds  unspeakable  communings  with  her : 
for  Nature  is  no  longer  dead,  hostile  Matter,  but  the  veil  and 
mysterious  Garment  of  the  Unseen  ;  as  it  were,  the  Voice 
with  which  the  Deity  proclaims  himself  to  man.  These  two 
qualities,  —  his  pure  religious  temper,  and  heartfelt  love  of 
Nature,  —  bring  him  into  true  poetic  relation  both  with  the 
spiritual  and  the  material  World,  and  perhaps  constitute  his 
chief  worth  as  a  Poet ;  for  which  art  he  seems  to  have 
originally  a  genuine,  but  no  exclusive  or  even  very  decided 
endowment. 

His  moral  persuasions,  as  evinced  in  his  Writings  and  Life, 
derive  themselves  naturally  enough  from  the  same  source. 
It  is  the  morality  of  a  man,  to  whom  the  Earth  and  all  its 
glories  are  in  truth  a  vapour  and  a  Dream,  and  the  Beauty 
of  Goodness  the  only  real  possession.  Poetry,  Virtue,  Re- 
ligion, which  for  other  men  have  but,  as  it  were,  a  tradition- 


108 


MISCELLANIES. 


ary  and  imagined  existence,  are  for  him  the  everlasting  basis 
of  the  Universe  ;  and  all  earthly  acquirements,  all  with  which 
Ambition,  Hope,  Fear,  can  tempt  us  to  toil  and  sin,  are  in 
very  deed  but  a  picture  of  the  brain,  some  reflex  shadowed 
on  the  mirror  of  the  Infinite,  but  in  themselves  air  and 
nothingness.  Thus,  to  live  in  that  Light  of  Reason,  to  have, 
even  while  here  and  encircled  with  this  Vision  of  Existence, 
our  abode  in  that  Eternal  City,  is  the  highest  and  sole  duty 
of  man.  These  things  Novalis  figures  to  himself  under 
various  images :  sometimes  he  seems  to  represent  the  Pri- 
meval essence  of  Being  as  Love  ;  at  other  times,  he  speaks 
in  emblems,  of  which  it  would  be  still  more  difficult  to  give 
a  just  account ;  which,  therefore,  at  present,  we  shall  not 
farther  notice. 

For  now,  with  these  far-off  sketches  of  an  exposition,  the 
reader  must  hold  himself  ready  to  look  into  Novalis,  for  a 
little,  with  his  own  eyes.  Whoever  has  honestly,  and  with 
attentive  outlook,  accompanied  us  along  these  wondrous  out' 
skirts  of  Idealism,  may  find  himself  as  able  to  interpret 
Novalis  as  the  majority  of  German  readers  would  be  ;  which, 
we  think,  is  fair  measure  on  our  part.  We  shall  not  attempt 
any  farther  commentary  ;  fearing  that  if  might  be  too  diffi- 
cult and  too  unthankful  a  business.  Our  first  extract  is  from 
the  Lehrlinge  zu  Sais  (Pupils  at  Sais),  adverted  to  above. 
That  '  Physical  Romance,'  which,  for  the  rest,  contains  no 
story  or  indication  of  a  story,  but  only  poetised  philosophical 
speeches,  and  the  strangest  shadowy  allegorical  allusions,  and 
indeed  is  only  carried  the  length  of  two  Chapters,  commences, 
without  note  of  preparation,  in  this  singular  wise : 

'I.  The  Pupil. —Men  travel  in  manifold  paths:  whoso  traces 
and  compares  these,  will  find  strange  Figures  come  to  light ;  Figures 
•which  seem  as  if  they  belonged  to  that  great  Cipher-writing  which 
one  meets  with  everywhere,  on  wings  of  birds,  shells  of  eggs,  in 
clouds,  in  the  snow,  in  crystals,  in  forms  of  rocks,  in  freezing  waters, 
in  the  interior  and  exterior  of  mountains,  of  plants,  animals,  men,  in 
the  lights  of  the  sky,  in  plates  of  glass  and  pitch  when  touched  and 
struck  on,  in  the  filings  round  the  magnet,  and  the  singular  con- 


NOVALIS. 


103 


junctures  of  Chance.  In  such  Figures  one  anticipates  the  key  to 
that  wondrous  Writing,  the  grammar  of  it ;  but  this  Anticipation 
will  not  fix  itself  into  shape,  and  appears  as  if.  after  all,  it  would 
not  become  such  a  key  for  us.  An  Alcahest  seems  poured  out  over 
the  senses  of  men.  Only  for  a  moment  will  their  wishes,  their 
thoughts  thicken  into  form.  Thus  do  their  Anticipations  arise ; 
but  after  short  whiles,  all  is  again  swimming  vaguely  before  them, 
even  as  it  did. 

'  From  afar  I  heard  say,  that  Unintelligibility  was  but  the  result  of 
Unintelligence ;  that  this  sought  what  itself  had,  and  so  could  find 
nowhere  else ;  also  that  we  did  not  understand  Speech,  because 
Speech  did  not,  would  not,  understand  itself;  that  the  genuine 
Sanscrit  spoke  for  the  sake  of  speaking,  because  speaking  was  its 
pleasure  and  its  nature. 

■  Not  long  thereafter,  said  one :  No  explanation  is  required  for 
Holy  Writing.  Whoso  speaks  truly  is  full  of  eternal  life,  and 
wonderfully  related  to  genuine  mysteries  does  his  Writing  appear 
to  us,  for  it  is  a  Concord  from  the  Symphony  of  the  Universe. 

'  Surely  this  voice  meant  our  Teacher  ;  for  it  is  he  that  can  collect 
the  indications  which  lie  scattered  on  all  sides.  A  singular  light 
kindles  in  his  looks,  when  at  length  the  high  Rune  lies  before  us, 
and  he  watches  in  our  eyes  whether  the  star  has  yet  risen  upon  us, 
which  is  to  make  the  Figure  visible  and  intelligible.  Does  he  see  us 
sad,  that  the  darkness  will  not  withdraw  ?  He  consoles  us,  and  prom- 
ises the  faithful  assiduous  seer  better  fortune  in  time.  Often  has 
he  told  us  how,  when  he  was  a  child,  the  impulse  to  employ  his 
senses,  to  busy  to  fill  them,  left  him  no  rest.  He  looked  at  the  stars, 
and  imitated  their  courses  and  positions  in  the  sand.  Into  the  ocean 
of  air  he  gazed  incessantly  ;  and  never  wearied  contemplating  its 
clearness,  its  movements,  its  clouds,  its  lights.  He  gathered  stones, 
flowers,  insects,  of  all  sorts,  and  spread  them  out  in  manifold  wise, 
in  rows  before  him.  To  men  and  animals  he  paid  heed  ;  on  the  shore 
of  the  sea  he  sat,  collected  muscles.  Over  his  own  heart  and  his 
own  thoughts  he  watched  attentively.  He  knew  not  whither  his 
longing  was  carrying  him.  As  he  grew  up  he  wandered  far  and 
wide ;  viewed  other  lands,  other  seas,  new  atmospheres,  new  rocks, 
unknown  plants,  animals,  men  ;  descended  into  caverns,  saw  how  in 
courses  and  varying  strata  the  edifice  of  the  Earth  was  completed, 
and  fashioned  clay  into  strange  figures  of  rocks.  By  and  by,  he 
came  to  find  everywhere  objects  already  known,  but  wonderfully 
mingled,  united  ;  and  thus  often  extraordinary  things  came  to  shape 
•in  him.  He  soon  became  aware  of  combinations  in  all,  of  conjunc- 
tures, concurrences.  Erelong,  he  no  more  saw  anything  alone.  — _In 
great  variegated  images,  the  perceptions  of  his  senses  crowded  round 


110 


MISCELLANIES. 


him ;  he  heard,  saw,  touched  and  thought  at  once.  He  rejoiced  to 
bring  strangers  together.  Now  the  stars  were  men,  now  men  were 
stars,  the  stones  animals,  the  clouds  plants ;  he  sported  with  powers 
and  appearances ;  he  knew  where  and  how  this  and  that  was  to  be 
found,  to  be  brought  into  action  ;  and  so  himself  struck  over  the 
strings,  for  tones  and  touches  of  his  own. 

'  What  has  passed  with  him  since  then  he  does  not  disclose  to  us. 
He  tells  us  that  we  ourselves,  led  on  by  him  and  our  own  desire,  will 
discover  what  has  passed  with  him.  Many  of  us  have  withdrawn 
from  him.  They  returned  to  their  parents,  and  learned  trades. 
Some  have  been  sent  out  by  him,  we  know  not  whither  ;  he  selected 
them.  Of  these,  some  have  been  but  a  short  time  there,  others 
longer.  One  was  still  a  child  ;  scarcely  was  he  come,  when  our 
Teacher  was  for  passing  him  any  more  instruction.  This  Child  had 
large  dark  eyes  with  azure  ground,  his  skin  shone  like  lilies,  and  his 
locks  like  light  little  clouds  when  it  is  growing  evening.  His  voice 
pierced  through  all  our  hearts ;  willingly  would  we  have  given  him 
our  flowers,  stones,  pens,  all  we  had.  He  smiled  with  an  infinite 
earnestness  ;  and  we  had  a  strange  delight  beside  him.  One  day  he 
will  come  again,  said  our  Teacher,  and  then  our  lessons  end. — 
Along  with  him  he  sent  one,  for  whom  we  had  often  been  sorry. 
Always  sad  he  looked  ;  he  had  been  long  years  here  ;  nothing  would 
succeed  with  him  ;  when  we  sought  crystals  or  flowers,  he  seldom 
iound.  He  saw  dimly  at  a  distance ;  to  lay  down  variegated  rows 
skilfully  he  had  no  power.  He  was  so  apt  to  break  everything. 
Yet  none  had  such  eagerness,  such  pleasure  in  hearing  and  listening. 
At  last, — it  was  before  that  Child  came  into  our  circle,  —  he  all  at 
once  grew  cheerful  and  expert.  One  day  he  had  gone  out  sad ;  he 
did  not  return,  and  the  night  came  on.  We  were  very  anxious  for 
him ;  suddenly,  as  the  morning  dawned,  we  heard  his  voice  in  a 
neighbouring  grove.  He  was  singing  a  high,  joyful  song  ;  we  were 
all  surprised ;  the  Teacher  looked  to  the  East,  such  a  look  as  I  shall 
never  see  in  him  again.  The  singer  soon  came  forth  to  us,  and 
brought,  with  unspeakable  blessedness  on  his  face,  a  simple-looking 
little  stone,  of  singular  shape.  The  Teacher  took  it  in  his  hand,  and 
kissed  him  long ;  then  looked  at  us  with  wet  eyes,  and  laid  this 
little  stone  on  an  empty  space,  which  lay  in  the  midst  of  other 
stones,  just  where,  like  radii,  many  rows  of  them  met  together. 

'  I  shall  in  no  time  forget  that  moment.  We  felt  as  if  we  had 
had  in  our  souls  a  clear  passing  glimpse  into  this  wondrous  World.' 

In  these  strange  Oriental  delineations  the  judicious  reader 
will  suspect  that  more  may  be  meant  than  meets  the  ear. 


NOVALIS. 


Ill 


But  who  this  teacher  at  Sais  is,  whether  the  personified 
Intellect  of  Mankind ;  and  who  this  bright-faced  golden- 
locked  Child  (Reason,  Religious  Faith?),  that  was  '  to  come 
again,'  to  conclude  these  lessons ;  and  that  awkward  un- 
wearied Man  (Understanding?),  that  'was  so  apt  to  break 
everything,'  we  have  no  data  for  determining,  and  would  not 
undertake  to  conjecture  with  any  certainty.  We  subjoin  a 
passage  from  the  second  chapter,  or  section,  entitled  ' Nature,' 
which,  if  possible,  is  of  a  still  more  surprising  character  than 
the  first.  After  speaking  at  "some  length  on  the  primeval 
views  Man  seems  to  have  formed  with  regard  to  the  external 
Universe,  or  '  the  manifold  Objects  of  his  Senses  ; '  and  how 
in  those  times  his  mind  had  a  peculiar  unity,  and  only  by 
Practice  divided  itself  into  separate  faculties,  as  by  Practice 
it  may  yet  farther  do,  '  our  Pupil '  proceeds  to  describe  the 
conditions  requisite  in  an  inquirer  into  Nature,  observing,  in 
conclusion,  with  regard  to  this, — 

'  No  one,  of  a  surety,  wanders  farther  from  the  mark,  than  he  who 
'fancies  to  himself  that  he  already  understands  this  marvellous  King- 
dom, and  can,  in  few  words,  fathom  its  constitution,  and  everywhere 
find  the  right  path.  To  no  one,  who  has  broken  off,  and  made  him- 
self an  Island,  will  insight  rise  of  itself,  nor  even  without  toilsome 
effort.  Only  to  children,  or  childlike  men,  who  know  not  what  they 
do,  can  this  happen.  Long,  unwearied  intercourse,  free  and  wise 
Contemplation,  attention  to  faint  tokens  and  indications ;  an  inward 
poet-life,  practised  senses,  a  simple  and  devout  spirit :  these  are  the 
essential  requisites  of  a  true  Friend  of  Nature ;  without  these  no  one 
can  attain  his  wish.  Not  wise  does  it  seem  to  attempt  comprehend- 
ing and  understanding  a  Human  World  without  full  perfected  Hu- 
manity. No  talent  must  sleep  ;  and  if  all  are  not  alike  active,  all 
must  be  alert,  and  not  oppressed  and  enervated.  As  we  see  a  future 
Painter  in  the  boy  who  fills  every  wall  with  sketches  and  variedly 
adds  colour  to  figure ;  so  we  see  a  future  Philosopher  in  him  who 
restlessly  traces  and  questions  all  natural  things,  pays  heed  to  all, 
brings  together  whatever  is  remarkable,  and  rejoices  when  he  has 
become  master  and  possessor  of  a  new  phenomenon,  of  a  new  power 
and  piece  of  knowledge. 

'  Now  to  Some  it  appears  not  at  all  worth  while  to  follow  out  the 
endless  divisions  of  Nature  ;  and  moreover  a  dangerous  undertaking, 


112 


MISCELLANIES. 


without  fruit  and  issue.  As  we  can  never  reach,  say  they,  the  abso- 
lutely smallest  grain  of  material  bodies,  never  find  their  simplest 
compartments,  since  all  magnitude  loses  itself,  forwards  and  back- 
wards, in  infinitude ;  so  likewise  is  it  with  the  species  of  bodies  and 
powers ;  here  too  one  comes  on  new  species,  new  combinations,  new 
appearances,  even  to  infinitude.  These  seem  only  to  stop,  continue 
they,  when  our  diligence  tires ;  and  so  it  is  spending  precious  time 
with  idle  contemplations  and  tedious  enumerations  ;  and  this  becomes 
at  last  a  true  delirium,  a  real  vertigo  over  the  horrid  Deep.  For 
Nature  too  remains,  so  far  as  we  have  yet  come,  ever  a  frightful 
Machine  of  Death :  everywhere  monstrous  revolution,  inexplicable 
vortices  of  movement ;  a  kingdom  of  Devouring,  of  the  maddest 
tyranny ;  a  baleful  Immense :  the  few  light-points  disclose  but  a  so 
much  the  more  appalling  Night,  and  terrors  of  all  sorts  must  palsy 
every  observer.  Like  a  saviour  does  Death  stand  by  the  hapless  race 
of  mankind ;  for  without  Death,  the  maddest  were  the  happiest. 
And  precisely  this  striving  to  fathom  that  gigantic  Mechanism  is 
already  a  draught  towards  the  Deep,  a  commencing  giddiness ;  for 
every  excitement  is  an  increasing  whirl,  which  soon  gains  full 
mastery  over  its  victim,  and  hurls  him  forward  with  it  into  the  fear- 
ful Night.  Here,  say  those  lamenters,  lies  the  crafty  snare  for  Man's 
understanding,  which  Nature  everywhere  seeks  to  annihilate  as  her 
greatest  foe.  Hail  to  that  childlike  ignorance  and  innocence  of  men, 
which  kept  them  blind  to  the  horrible  perils  that  everywhere,  like 
grim  thunder-clouds,  lay  round  their  peaceful  dwelling,  and  each 
moment  were  ready  to  rush  down  on  them.  Only  inward  disunion 
among  the  powers  of  Nature  has  preserved  men  hitherto ;  neverthe- 
less, that  great  epoch  cannot  fail  to  arrive,  when  the  whole  family  of 
mankind,  by  a  grand  universal  Resolve,  will  snatch  themselves  from 
this  sorrowful  condition,  from  this  frightful  imprisonment;  and  by  a 
voluntary  Abdication  of  their  terrestrial  abode,  redeem  their  race 
from  this  anguish,  and  seek  refuge  in  a  happier  world,  with  their 
ancient  Father.  Thus  might  they  end  worthily  ;  and  prevent  a 
necessary,  violent  destruction  ;  or  a  still  more  horrible  degenerating 
into  Beasts,  by  gradual  dissolution  of  their  thinking  organs,  through 
Insanity.  Intercourse  with  the  powers  of  Nature,  with  animals, 
plants,  rocks,  storms  and  waves,  must  necessarily  assimilate  men  to 
these  objects ;  and  this  Assimilation,  this  Metamorphosis,  and  disso- 
lution of  the  Divine  and  the  Human,  into  ungovernable  Forces,  is 
even  the  Spirit  of  Nature,  that  frightfully  voracious  Power :  and  is 
not  all  that  we  see  even  now  a  prey  from  Heaven,  a  great  Ruin  of 
former  Glories,  the  Remains  of  a  terrific  Repast  ? 

'  Be  it  so,  cry  a  more  courageous  Class  ;  let  our  species  maintain 
a  stubborn,  well-planned  war  of  destruction  with  this  same  Nature, 


NOVALTS. 


113 


then.  By  slow  poisons  must  we  endeavour  to  subdue  her.  The 
Inquirer  into  Nature  is  a  noble  hero,  who  rushes  into  the  open  abyss 
for  the  deliverance  of  his  fellow-citizens.  Artists  have  already  played 
her  many  a  trick :  do  but  continue  in  this  com-se  ;  get  hold  of  the 
secret  threads,  and  bring  them  to  act  against  each  other.  Profit  by 
these  discords,  that  so  in  the  end  you  may  lead  her,  like  that  fire- 
breathing  Bull,  according  to  your  pleasure.  To  you  she  must  be- 
come obedient.  Patience  and  Faith  beseem  the  children  of  men. 
Distant  Brothers  are  united  with  us  for  one  object ;  the  wheel  of  the 
Stars  must  become  the  cistern-wheel  of  our  life,  and  then,  by  our 
slaves,  we  can  build  us  a  new  Fairyland.  With  heartfelt  triumph 
let  us  look  at  her  devastations,  her  tumults  ;  she  is  selling  herself  to 
us,  and  every  violence  she  will  pay  by  a  heavy  penalty.  In  the  in- 
spiring feeling  of  our  Freedom,  let  us  live  and  die ;  here  gushes 
forth  the  stream,  which  will  one  day  overflow  and  subdue  her ;  in  it 
let  us  bathe,  and  refresh  ourselves  for  new  exploits.  Hither  the  rage 
of  the  Monster  does  not  reach ;  one  drop  of  Freedom  is  sufficient  to 
cripple  her  forever,  and  forever  set  limits  to  her  havoc. 

'  They  are  right,  say  Several ;  here,  or  nowhere,  lies  the  talisman. 
By  the  well  of  Freedom  we  sit  and  look ;  it  is  the  grand  magic 
Mirror,  where  the  whole  Creation  images  itself,  pure  and  clear ;  in  it 
do  the  tender  Spirits  and  Forms  of  all  Natures  bathe ;  all  chambers 
we  here  behold  unlocked.  What  need  have  we  toilsomely  to  wander 
over  the  troublous  World  of  visible  things  1  The  purer  World  lies 
even  in  us,  in  this  Well.  Here  discloses  itself  the  true  meaning  of 
the  great,  many-coloured,  complected  Scene ;  and  if  full  of  these 
sights  we  return  into  Nature,  all  is  well  known  to  us,  with  certainty 
we  distinguish  every  shape.  We  need  not  to  inquire  long ;  a  light 
Comparison,  a  few  strokes  in  the  sand,  are  enough  to  inform  us. 
Thus,  for  us,  is  the  whole  a  great  Writing,  to  which  we  have  the 
key:  and  nothing  comes  to  us  unexpected,  for  the  course  of  the 
great  Horologe  is  known  to  us  beforehand.  It  is  only  we  that  enjoy 
Nature  with  full  senses,  because  she  does  not  frighten  us  from  our 
senses  ;  because  no  fever-dreams  oppress  us,  and  serene  conscious- 
ness makes  us  calm  and  confiding. 

'  They  are  not  right,  says  an  earnest  Man  to  these  latter.  Can  they 
not  recognise  in  Nature  the  true  impress  of  their  own  Selves  ?  It  is 
even  they  that  consume  themselves  in  wild  hostility  to  Thought. 
They  know  not  that  this  so-called  Nature  of  theirs  is  a  Sport  of  the 
Mind,  a  waste  Fantasy  of  their  Dream.  Of  a  surety,  it  is  for  them  a 
horrible  Monster,  a  strange  grotesque  Shadow  of  their  own  Passions. 
The  waking  man  looks  without  fear  at  this  offspring  of  his  lawless 
Imagination  ;  for  he  knows  that  they  are  but  vain  Spectres  of  his 
weakness.    He  feels  himself  lord  of  the  world  :  his  Me  hovers  vic- 

vol.  n.  8 


114 


MISCELLANIES. 


torious  over  the  Abyss ;  and  will  through  Eternities  hover  aloft  above 
that  endless  Vicissitude.  Harmony  is  what  his  spirit  strives  to  pro- 
mulgate, to  extend.  He  will  even  to  infinitude  grow  more  and  more 
harmonious  with  himself  and  witli  his  Creation;  and  at  every  step 
behold  the  all-efficiency  of  a  high  moral  Order  in  the  Universe,  and 
what  is  purest  of  his  Me  come  forth  into  brighter  and  brighter  clear- 
ness. The  significance  of  the  World  is  Reason  ;  for  her  sake  is  the 
World  here ;  and  when  it  is  grown  to  be  the  arena  of  a  childlike, 
expanding  Reason,  it  will  one  day  become  the  divine  Image  of  her 
Activity,  the  scene  of  a  genuine  Church.  Till  then  let  man  honour 
Nature  as  the  Emblem  of  his  own  Spirit ;  the  Emblem  ennobling 
itself,  along  with  him,  to  unlimited  degrees.  Let  him,  therefore, 
who  would  arrive  at  knowledge  of  Nature,  train  bis  moral  sense,  let 
him  act  and  conceive  in  accordance  with  the  noble  Essence  of  his 
Soul ;  and  as  if  of  herself,  Nature  will  become  open  to  him.  Moral 
Action  is  that  great  and  only  Experiment,  in  which  all  riddles  of  the 
most  manifold  appearances  explain  themselves.  Whoso  understands 
it,  and  in  rigid  sequence  of  Thought  can  lay  it  open,  is  forever 
Master  of  Nature.' 1 

'  The  Pupil,'  it  is  added,  '  listens  with  alarm  to  these  con- 
flicting voices.'  If  such  was  the  case  in  half-supernatural 
Sais,  it  may  well  be  much  more  so  in  mere  sublunary 
London.  Here  again,  however,  in  regard  to  these  vaporous 
lucubrations,  we  can  only  imitate  Jean  Paul's  Quintus  Fix- 
lein,  who,  it  is  said,  in  his  elaborate  Catalogue  of  German 
Errors  of  the  Press,  '  states  that  important  inferences  are  to 
'  be  drawn  from  it,  and  advises  the  reader  to  draw  them.' 
Perhaps  these  wonderful  paragraphs,  which  look,  at  this 
distance,  so  like  chasms  filled  with  mere  sluggish  mist,  might 
prove  valleys,  with  a  clear  stream  and  soft  pastures,  were  we 
near  at  hand.  For  one  thing,  either  Novalis,  with  Tieck 
and  Schlegel  at  his  back,  are  men  in  a  state  of  derangement ; 
or  there  is  more  in  Heaven  and  Earth  than  has  been  dreamt 
of  in  our  Philosophy.  We  may  add  that,  in  our  view,  this 
last  Speaker,  the  '  earnest  Man,'  seems  evidently  to  be 
Fichte ;  the  first  two  Classes  look  like  some  sceptical  or 
atheistic  brood,  unacquainted  with  Bacon's  Novum  Oryanum, 
or  having,  the  First  class  at  least,  almost  no  faith  in  it.  That 

1  Bd.  ii.  s.  43-57. 


NOVALIS.  115 

theory  of  the  human  species  ending  by  a  universal  simultane- 
ous act  of  Suicide,  will,  to  the  more  simple  sort  of  readers, 
be  new. 

As  farther  and  more  directly  illustrating  Novalis's  scien- 
tific views,  we  may  here  subjoin  two  short  sketches,  taken 
from  another  department  of  this  Volume.  To  all  who  pros- 
ecute Philosophy,  and  take  interest  in  its  history  and  pres- 
ent aspects,  they  will  not  be  without  interest.  The  obscure 
parts  of  them  are  not  perhaps  unintelligible,  but  only  ob- 
scure ;  which  unluckily  cannot,  at  all  times,  be  helped  in 
such  cases : 

'  Common  Logic  is  the  Grammar  of  the  higher  Speech,  that  is  of 
Thought ;  it  examines  merely  the  relations  of  ideas  to  one  another, 
the  Mechanics  of  Thought,  the  pure  Physiology  of  ideas.  Now- 
logical  ideas  stand  related  to  one  another,  like  words  without 
thoughts.  Logic  occupies  itself  with  the  mere  dead  Body  of  the 
Science  of  Thinking. —  Metaphysics,  again,  is  the  Dynamics  of 
Thought;  treats  of  the  primary  Potvers  of  Thought;  occupies  itself 
*  with  the  mere  Soul  of  the  Science  of  Thinking.  Metaphysical  ideas 
stand  related  to  one  another,  like  thoughts  without  words.  Men 
often  wondered  at  the  stubborn  Incompletibility  of  these  two  Sci- 
ences ;  each  followed  .its  own  business  by  itself ;  there  was  a  want 
everywhere,  nothing  would  suit  rightly  with  either.  From  the  very 
■first,  attempts  were  made  to  unite  them,  as  everything  about  them 
indicated  relationship ;  but  every  attempt  failed ;  the  one  or  the 
other  Science  still  suffered  in  these  attempts,  and  lost  its  essential 
character.  We  had  to  abide  by  metaphysical  Logic,  and  logical 
Metaphysic,  but  neither  of  them  was  as  it  should  be.  With  Physi- 
ology and  Psychology  with  Mechanics  and  Chemistry,  it  fared  no 
better.  In  the  latter  half  of  this  Century  there  arose,  with  us  Ger- 
mans, a  more  violent  commotion  than  ever ;  the  hostile  masses 
towered  themselves  up  against  each  other  more  fiercely  than  hereto- 
fore ;  the  fermentation  was  extreme ;  there  followed  powerful  ex- 
plosions. And  now  some  assert  that  a  real  Compenetration  has 
somewhere  or  other  taken  place ;  that  the  germ  of  a  union  has 
arisen,  which  will  grow  by  degrees,  and  assimilate  all  to  one  indivisi- 
ble form  :  that  this  principle  of  Peace  is  pressing  out  irresistibly,  on 
all  sides,  and  that  erelong  there  will  be  but  one  Science  and  one 
Spirit,  as  one  Prophet  and  one  God.'  — 

'  The  rude,  discursive  Thinker  is  the  Scholastic  (Schoolman 
Logician).    The  true  Scholastic  is  a  mystical  Subtlist;  out  of  logical 


116 


MISCELLANIES. 


Atoms  he  builds  his  Universe ;  he  annihilates  all  living  Nature,  to 
put  an  Artifice  of  Thoughts  (Gedankenkunststuck,  literally  Conjuror's- 
trick  of  Thoughts)  in  its  room.  His  aim  is  an  infinite  Automaton. 
Opposite  to  him  is  the  rude,  intuitive  Poet :  this  is  a  mystical  Ma- 
crologist :  he  hates  rules  and  fixed  form  ;  a  wild,  violent  life  reigns 
instead  of  it  in  Nature ;  all  is  animate,  no  law ;  wilfulness  and 
wonder  everywhere.  He  is  merely  dynamical.  Thus  does  the 
Philosophic  Spirit  arise  at  first,  in  altogether  separate  masses.  In 
the  second  stage  of  culture  these  masses  begin  to  come  in  contact, 
multifariously  enough ;  and,  as  in  the  union  of  infinite  Extremes, 
the  Finite,  the  Limited  arises,  so  here  also  arise  "  Eclectic  Philoso- 
phers "  without  number ;  the  time  of  misunderstanding  begins.  The 
most  limited  is,  in  this  stage,  the  most  important,  the  purest  Philoso- 
pher of  the  second  stage.  This  class  occupies  itself  wholly  with  the 
actual,  present  world,  in  the  strictest  sense.  The  Philosophers  of 
the  first  class  look  down  with  contempt  on  those  of  the  second ;  say, 
they  are  a  little  of  everything,  and  so  nothing ;  hold  their  views  as 
the  results  of  weakness,  as  Inconsequentism.  On  the  contrary,  the 
second  class,  in  their  turn,  pity  the  first;  lay  the  blame  on  their 
visionary  enthusiasm,  which  they  say  is  absurd,  even  to  insanity. 
If,  on  the  one  hand,  the  Scholastics  and  Alchemists  seem  to  be 
utterly  at  variance,  and  the  Eclectics  on  the  other  hand  quite  at  one, 
yet,  strictly  examined,  it  is  altogether  the  reverse.  The  former,  in 
essentials,  are  indirectly  of  one  opiuion  ;  namely,  as  regards  the  non- 
dependence  and  infinite  character  of  Meditation,  they  both  set  out 
from  the  Absolute :  whilst  the  Eclectic  and  limited  sort  are  essen- 
tially at  variance  ;  and  agree  only  in  what  is  deduced.  The  former 
are  infinite  but  uniform,  the  latter  bounded  but  multiform ;  the 
former  have  genius,  the  latter  talent ;  those  have  Ideas,  these  have 
knacks  (Handgriffe)  ;  those  are  heads  without  hands,  these  are  hands 
without  heads.  The  third  stage  is  for  the  Artist,  who  can  be  at  once 
implement  and  genius.  He  finds  that  that  primitive  Separation  in 
the  absolute  Philosophical  Activities '  (between  the  Scholastic,  and 
the  "  rude,  intuitive  Poet")  '  is  a  deeper-lying  Separation  in  his  own 
Nature ;  which  Separation  indicates,  by  its  existence  as  such,  the 
possibility  of  being  adjusted,  of  being  joined  :  he  finds  that,  hetero- 
geneous as  these  Activities  are,  there  is  yet  a  faculty  in  him  of  pass- 
ing from  the  one  to  the  other,  of  changing  his  polarity  at  will.  He 
discovers  in  them,  therefore,  necessary  members  of  his  spirit;  he 
observes  that  both  must  be  united  in  some  common  Principle.  He 
infers  that  Eclecticism  is  nothing  but  the  imperfect  defective  employ- 
ment of  this  Principle.    It  becomes  ' 

—  But  we  need  not  struggle  farther,  wringing  a  significance 


NOVALIS.  117 

out  of  these  mysterious  words :  in  delineating  the  genuine 
Transcendentalist,  or  '  Philosopher  of  the  third  stage,' 
properly  speaking  the  Philosopher,  Novalis  ascends  into 
regions  whither  few  readers  would  follow  him.  It  may  be 
observed  here,  that  British  Philosophy,  tracing  it  from  Duns 
Scotus  to  Dugald  Stewart,  has  now  gone  through  the  first 
and  second  of  these  '  stages,'  the  Scholastic  and  the  Eclectic, 
and  in  considerable  honour.  With  our  amiable  Professor 
Stewart,  than  whom  no  man,  not  Cicero  himself,  was  ever 
more  entirely  Eclectic,  that  second  or  Eclectic  class  may  be 
considered  as  having  terminated ;  and  now  Philosophy  is  at 
a  stand  among  us,  or  rather  there  is  now  no  Philosophy 
visible  in  these  Islands.  It  remains  to  be  seen,  whether  we 
also  are  to  have  our  '  third  stage ; '  and  how  that  new  and 
highest  '  class '  will  demean  itself  here.  The  French  Phi- 
losophers seem  busy  studying  Kant,  and  writing  of  him  :  but 
we  rather  imagine  Novalis  would  pronounce  them  still  only 
in  the  Eclectic  stage.  He  says  afterwards,  that  '  all  Eclectics 
are  essentially  and  at  bottom  sceptics ;  the  more  comprehen- 
sive, the  more  sceptical.' 

These  two  passages  have  been  extracted  from  a  large 
series  of  Fragments,  which,  under  the  three  divisions  of 
Philosophical,  Critical,  Moral,  occupy  the  greatest  part  of 
Volume  Second.  They  are  fractions,  as  we  hinted  above, 
of  that  grand  'encyclopedical  work'  which  Novalis  had 
planned.  Friedrich  Schlegel  is  said  to  be  the  selector  of 
those  published  here.  They  come  before  us  without  note  or 
comment ;  worded  for  the  most  part  in  very  unusual  phrase- 
ology ;  and  without  repeated  and  most  patient  investigation, 
seldom  yield  any  significance,  or  rather  we  should  say,  often 
yield  a  false  one.  A  few  of  the  clearest  we  have  selected 
for  insertion :  whether  the  reader  will  think  them  '  Pollen  of 
Flowers,'  or  a  baser  kind  of  dust,  we  shall  not  predict.  We 
give  them  in  a  miscellaneous  shape ;  overlooking  those  classi- 
fications which,  even  in  the  text,  are  not  and  could  not  be 
very  rigidly  adhered  to. 


118 


MISCELLANIES. 


'  Philosophy  can  bake  no  bread  ;  but  she  can  procure  for  us  God, 
Freedom,  Immortality.  "Which  then  is  more  practical,  Philosophy 
or  Economy  1  — 

'  Philosophy  is  properly  Home-sickness  ;  the  wish  to  be  every- 
where at  home.  — 

'  We  are  near  awakening  when  we  dream  that  we  dream.  — 

'  The  true  philosophical  Act  is  annihilation  of  self  (SelbsttOdtunc/) ; 
this  is  the  real  beginning  of  all  Philosophy  ;  all  requisites  for  being  a 
Disciple  of  Philosophy  point  hither.  This  Act  alone  corresponds  to 
all  the  conditions  and  characteristics  of  transcendental  conduct.  — 

'  To  become  properly  acquainted  with  a  truth,  we  must  first  have 
disbelieved  it,  and  disputed  against  it.  — 

'  Man  is  the  higher  Sense  of  our  Planet ;  the  star  which  connects  it 
with  the  upper  world  ;  the  eye  which  it  turns  towards  Heaven.  — 

'  Life  is  a  disease  of  the  spirit ;  a  working  incited  by  Passion.  Rest 
is  peculiar  to  the  spirit.  — 

'Our  life  is  no  Dream,  but  it  may  and  will  perhaps  become 
one. — 

'  What  is  Nature  ?  An  encyclopedical,  systematic  Index  or  Plan 
of  our  Spirit.  Why  will  we  content  us  with  the  mere  Catalogue  of 
our  Treasures  1  Let  us  contemplate  them  ourselves,  and  in  all  ways 
elaborate  and  use  them.  — 

'  If  our  Bodily  Life  is  a  burning,  our  Spiritual  Life  is  a  being 
burnt,  a  Combustion  (or,  is  precisely  the  inverse  the  case?)  ;  Death, 
therefore,  perhaps  a  Change  of  Capacity.  — 

'Sleep  is  for  the  inhabitants  of  Planets  only.  In  another  time. 
Man  will  sleep  and  wake  continually  at  once.  The  greater  part  of 
our  Body,  of  our  Humanity  itself,  yet  sleeps  a  deep  sleep.  — 

'  There  is  but  one  Temple  in  the  World  ;  and  that  is  the  Body  of 
Man.  Nothing  is  holier  than  this  high  form.  Bending  before  men 
is  a  reverence  done  to  this  Revelation  in  the  Flesh.  We  touch 
Heaven,  when  we  lay  our  hand  on  a  human  body.  — 

'  Man  is  a  Sun  ;  his  Senses  are  the  Planets.  — 

'  Man  has  ever  expressed  some  symbolical  Philosophy  of  his  Being 
in  his  Works  and  Conduct;  he  announces  himself  and  his  Gospel  of 
Nature  ;  he  is  the  Messiah  of  Nature.  — 

•Plants  are  Children  of  the  Earth;  we  are  Children  of  the  iEther. 
Our  Lungs  are  properly  our  Root;  we  live,  when  we  breathe;  we 
begin  our  life  with  breathing.  — 

'  Nature  is  an  jEolian  Harp,  a  musical  instrument ;  whose  tones 
again  are  keys  to  higher  strings  in  us.  — 

'  Every  beloved  object  is  the  centre  of  a  Paradise.  — 

'  The  first  Man  is  the  first  Spirit-seer  ;  all  appears  to  him  as  Spirit. 
What  are  children,  but  first  men  !    The  fresh  gaze  of  the  Child  is 


NOVALIS. 


119 


richer  in  significance  than  the  forecasting  of  the  most  indubitable 
Seer.  — 

'  It  depends  only  on  the  weakness  of  our  organs  and  of  our  self- 
excitement  (Selbstberiihrung),  that  we  do  not  see  ourselves  in  a  Fairy- 
world.  All  Fabulous  Tales  (M&krchen)  are  merely  dreams  of  that 
home-world,  which  is  everywhere  and  nowhere.  The  higher  powers 
in  us,  which  one  day  as  Genies,  shall  fulfil  our  will,1  are,  for  the 
present,  Muses,  which  refresh  us  on  our  toilsome  course  with  sweet 
remembrances.  — 

'  Man  consists  in  Truth.  If  he  exposes  Truth,  he  exposes  himself. 
If  he  betrays  Truth,  he  betrays  himself.  We  speak  not  here  of  Lies, 
but  of  acting  against  Conviction.  — 

'A  character  is  a  completely  fashioned  will  (vollkommen  gebildeter 
Wille).— 

'  There  is,  properly  speaking,  no  Misfortune  in  the  world.  Happi- 
ness and  Misfortune  stand  in  continual  balance.  Every  Misfortune 
is,  as  it  were,  the  obstruction  of  a  stream,  which,  after  overcoming 
this  obstruction,  but  bursts  through  with  the  greater  force.  — 

'  The  ideal  of  Morality  has  no  more  dangerous  rival  than  the  ideal 
of  highest  Strength,  of  most  powerful  life  ;  which  also  has  been 
named  (very  falsely  as  it  was  there  meant)  the  ideal  of  poetic  great- 
ness. It  is  the  maximum  of  the  savage  ;  and  has,  in  these  times, 
•gained,  precisely  among  the  greatest  weaklings,  very  many  prose- 
lytes. By  this  ideal,  man  becomes  a  Beast-Spirit,  a  Mixture ;  whose 
brutal  wit  has,  for  weaklings,  a  brutal  power  of  attraction.  — 

'  The  spirit  of  Poesy  is  the  morning  light,  which  makes  the  Statue 
of  Memnon  sound.  —  ' 

'  The  division  of  Philosopher  and  Poet  is  only  apparent,  and  to 
the  disadvantage  of  both.  It  is  a  sign  of  disease,  and  of  a  sickly 
constitution.  — 

'  The  true  Poet  is  all-knowing ;  he  is  an  actual  world  in  minia- 
ture. — 

'  Klopstock's  works  appear,  for  the  most  part,  free  Translations  of 
an  unknown  Poet,  by  a  very  talented  but  unpoetical  Philologist.  — 

'  Goethe  is  an  altogether  practical  Poet.  He  is  in  his  works  what 
the  English  are  in  their  wares  :  highly  simple,  neat,  convenient  and 

i  Novalis's  ideas,  on  what  has  been  called  the  '  perfectibility  of  man,' 
ground  themselves  on  his  peculiar  views  of  the  constitution  of  material 
and  spiritual  Nature,  and  are  of  the  most  original  and  extraordinary  char- 
acter. With  our  utmost  effort,  we  should  despair  of  communicating  other 
than  a  quite  false  notion  of  them.  He  asks,  for  instance,  with  scientific 
gravity:  Whether  any  one,  that  recollects  the  first  kind  glance  of  her  he 
loved,  can  doubt  the  possibility  of  Magic  ? 


120 


MISCELLANIES. 


durable.  He  has  done  in  German  Literature  what  Wedgwood  did  in 
English  Manufacture.  He  has,  like  the  English,  a  natural  turn  for 
Economy,  and  a  noble  Taste  acquired  by  Understanding.  Both  these 
are  very  compatible,  and  have  a  near  affinity  in  the  chemical  sense. 
*  * —  Wilhelm  Meister's  Apprenticeship  may  be  called  throughout 
prosaic  and  modern.  The  Romantic  sinks  to  ruin,  the  Poesy  of  Na- 
ture, the  Wonderful.  The  Book  treats  merely  of  common  worldly 
things  :  Nature  and  Mysticism  are  altogether  forgotten.  It  is  a 
poetised  civic  and  household  History  ;  the  Marvellous  is  expressly 
treated  therein  as  imagination  and  enthusiasm.  Artistic  Atheism  is 
the  spirit  of  the  Book.  *  *  *  It  is  properly  a  Gandide,  directed 
against  Poetry  :  the  Book  is  highly  unpoetical  in  respect  of  spirit, 
poetical  as  the  dress  and  body  of  it  is.  *  *  *  The  introduction 
of  Shakspeare  has  almost  a  tragic  effect.  The  hero  retards  the  tri- 
umph of  the  Gospel  of  Economy  ;  and  economical  Nature  is  finally 
the  true  and  only  remaining  one.  — 

'  When  we  speak  of  the  aim  and  Art  observable  in  Shakspeare's 
works,  we  must  not  forget  that  Art  belongs  to  Nature  ;  that  it  is,  so 
to  speak,  self-viewing,  self-imitating,  self-fashioning  Nature.  The 
Art  of  a  well-developed  genius  is  far  different  from  the  Artfulness  of 
the  Understanding,  of  the  merely  reasoning  mind.  Shakspeare  was 
no  calculator,  no  learned  thinker;  he  was  a  mighty,  many-gifted  soul, 
whose  feelings  and  works,  like  products  of  Nature,  bear  the  stamp 
of  the  same  spirit ;  and  in  which  the  last  and  deepest  of  observers  will 
still  find  new  harmonies  with  the  infinite  structure  of  the  Universe ; 
concurrences  with  later  ideas,  affinities  with  the  higher  powers  and 
senses  of  man.  They  are  emblematic,  have  many  meanings,  are 
simple  and  inexhaustible,  like  products  of  Nature  ;  and  nothing  more 
unsuitable  could  be  said  of  them  than  that  they  are  works  of  Art,  in 
that  narrow  mechanical  acceptation  of  the  word.' 

The  reader  understands  that  we  offer  these  specimens  not 
as  the  best  to  be  found  in  Novalis's  Fragments,  but  simply  as 
the  most  intelligible.  Far  stranger  and  deeper  things  there 
are,  could  we  hope  to  make  them  in  the  smallest  degree  un- 
derstood. But  in  examining  and  re-examining  many  of  his 
Fragments,  we  find  ourselves  carried  into  more  complex, 
more  subtle  regions  of  thought  than  any  we  are  elsewhere 
acquainted  with  :  here  we  cannot  always  find  our  own  lati- 
tude and  longitude,  sometimes  not  even  approximate  to  find- 
ing them ;  much  less  teach  others  such  a  secret. 

What  has  been  already  quoted  may  afford  some  knowledge 


NOVALIS. 


121 


of  Novalis,  in  the  characters  of  Philosopher  and  Critic :  there 
is  one  other  aspect  under  which  it  would  be  still  more  curi- 
ous to  view  and  exhibit  him,  but  still  more  difficult,  —  we 
mean  that  of  his  Religion.  Novalis  nowhere  specially  re- 
cords his  creed,  in  these  "Writings  :  he  many  times  expresses, 
or  implies,  a  zealous,  heartfelt  belief  in  the  Christian  system ; 
yet  with  such  adjuncts  and  coexisting  persuasions,  as  to  us 
might  seem  rather  surprising.  One  or  two  more  of  these 
his  Aphorisms,  relative  to  this  subject,  we  shall  cite,  as  likely 
to  be  better  than  any  description  of  ours.  The  whole  Essay 
at  the  end  of  Volume  First,  entitled  Die  Ghristenheit  oder 
Euro-pa  (Christianity  or  Europe)  is  also  well  worthy  of 
study,  in  this  as  in  many  other  points  of  view, 

'  Religion  contains  infinite  sadness.  If  we  are  to  love  God,  he  must 
be  in  distress  (half sbediirf tig,  help-needing).  In  how  far  is  this  con- 
dition answered  in  Christianity  1  — 

'  Spinoza  is  a  God-intoxicated  man  (Gott-trunkener  Mensch). — 

'Is  the  Devil,  as  Father  of  Lies,  himself  but  a  necessary  illu- 
sion ?  —  • 

"  The  Catholic  Religion  is  to  a  certain  extent  applied  Christianity. 
Fichte's  Philosophy  too  is  perhaps  applied  Christianity.  — 

'  Can  Miracles  work  Conviction  1  Or  is  not  real  Conviction,  this 
highest  function  of  our-  soul  and  personality,  the  only  true  God-an- 
nouncing Miracle  ? 

'  The  Christian  Religion  is  especially  remarkable,  moreover,  as  it 
so  decidedly  lays  claim  to  mere  good-will  in  Man,  to  his  essential 
Temper,  and  values  this  independently  of  all  Culture  and  Manifesta- 
tion. It  stands  in  opposition  to  Science  and  to  Art,  and  properly  to 
Enjoyment.1 

'  Its  origin  is  with  the  common  people.  It  inspires  the  great  major- 
ity of  the  limited  in  this  Earth. 

'  It  is  the  Light  that  begins  to  shine  in  the  Darkness. 

'  It  is  the  root  of  all  Democracy,  the  highest  Fact  in  the  Rights  of 
Man  (die  hOchste  Thatsache  der  PopulariWt) . 

'  Its  unpoetical  exterior,  its  resemblance  to  a  modern  family-pic- 
ture, seems  only  to  be  lent  it.1 

'  Martyrs  are  spiritual  heroes.  Christ  was  the  greatest  martyr  of 
our  species  ;  through  him  has  martyrdom  become  infinitely  signif- 
icant and  holy.  — 

1  Italics  also  in  the  text. 


122 


MISCELLANIES. 


'  The  Bible  begins  nobly,  with  Paradise,  the  symbol  of  youth  ;  and 
concludes  with  the  Eternal  Kingdom,  the  Holy  City.  Its  two  main 
divisions,  also,  are  genuine  grand-historical  divisions  {tLcht  gross- 
kistorisch).  For  in  every  grand-historical  compartment  ( Glied),  the 
grand  history  must  lie,  as  it  were,  symbolically  re-created  (verjungt, 
made  young  again).  The  beginning  of  the  New  Testament  is  the 
second  higher  Fall  (the  Atonement  of  the  Fall),  and  the  commence- 
ment of  the  new  Period.  The  history  of  every  individual  man  should 
be  a  Bible.  Christ  is  the  new  Adam.  A  Bible  is  the  highest  prob- 
lem of  Authorship.  — 

'As  yet  there  is  no  Religion.  You  must  first  make  a  Seminary 
(Bildimgs-schule)  of  genuine  Religion.  Think  ye  that  there  is  Re- 
ligion 1  Religion  has  to  be  made  and  produced  (gemacht  und  hercor- 
gebraclit)  by  the  union  of  a  number  of  persons.' 

Hitherto  our  x*eaders  have  seen  nothing  of  Novalis  in  his 
character  of  Poet,  properly  so  called  ;  the  Pupils  at  Sais 
being  fully  more  of  a  scientific  than  poetic  nature.  As 
hinted  above,  we  do  not  account  his  gifts  in  this  latter  prov- 
ince as  of  the  first,  or  even  of  a  high  order ;  unless,  indeed, 
it  be  true,  as  he  himself  maintains,  that  '  the  distinction  of 
Poet  and  Philosopher  is  apparent  only,  and  to  the  injury 
of  both.'  In  his  professedly  poetical  compositions  there  is 
an  indubitable  prolixity,  a  degree  of  languor,  not  weakness 
but  sluggishness;  the  meaning  is  too  much  diluted;  and 
diluted,  we  might  say,  not  in  a  rich,  lively,  varying  music, 
as  we  find  in  Tieck,  for  example ;  but  rather  in  a  low- 
voiced,  not  unmelodious  monotony,  the  deep  hum  of  which 
is  broken  only  at  rare  intervals,  though  sometimes  by  tones 
of  purest  and  almost  spiritual  softness.  We  here  allude 
chiefly  to  his  unmetrical  pieces,  his  prose  fictions  :  indeed 
the  metrical  are  few  in  number ;  for  the  most  part,  on 
religious  subjects  ;  and  in  spite  of  a  decided  truthfulness 
both  in  feeling  and  word,  seem  to  bespeak  no  great  skill  or 
practice  in  that  form  of  composition.  In  his  prose  style  he 
may  be  accounted  happier ;  he  aims  in  general  at  simplicity, 
and  a  certain  familiar  expressiveness  ;  here  and  there  in  his 
more  elaborate  passages,  especially  in  his  Hymns  to  the  Night, 
he  has  reminded  us  of  Herder. 


NOVALIS. 


123 


These  Hymns  to  the  Night,  it  will  be  remembered,  were 
written  shortly  after  the  death  of  his  mistress :  in  that 
period  of  deep  sorrow,  or  rather  of  holy  deliverance  from 
sorrow.  Novalis  himself  regarded  them  as  his  most  finished 
productions.  They  are  of  a  strange,  veiled,  almost  enigmati- 
cal character  ;  nevertheless,  more  deeply  examined,  they  ap- 
pear nowise  without  true  poetic  worth ;  there  is  a  vastness, 
an  immensity  of  idea  ;  a  still  solemnity  reigns  in  them,  a 
solitude  almost  as  of  extinct  worlds.  Here  and  there  too 
some  light-beam  visits  us  in  the  void  deep  ;  and  we  cast  a 
glance,  clear  and  wondrous,  into  the  secrets  of  that  mysteri- 
ous soul.  A  full  commentary  on  the  Hymns  to  the  Night 
would  be  an  exposition  of  Novalis's  whole  theological  and 
moral  creed  ;  for  it  lies  recorded  there,  though  symbolically, 
and  in  lyric,  not  in  didactic  language.  We  have  translated 
the  Third,  as  the  shortest  and  simplest ;  imitating  its  light, 
half-measured  style,  above  all  deciphering  its  vague  deep- 
laid  sense,  as  accurately  as  we  could.  By  the  word  '  Night,' 
it  will  be  seen,  Novalis  means  much  more  than  the  com- 
mon opposite  of  Day.  '  Light,  seems,  in  these  poems,  to 
shadow  forth  our  terrestrial  life  ;  Night  the  primeval  and 
celestial  life  : 

'Once  when  I  was  shedding  bitter  tears,  when  dissolved  in  pain 
my  Hope  had  melted  away,  and  I  stood  solitary  by  the  grave  that 
in  its  dark  narrow  space  concealed  the  Form  of  my  life  :  solitary  as 
no  other  had  been  ;  chased  by  unutterable  anguish  ;  powerless  ;  one 
thought  and  that  of  misery  ;  — here  now  as  I  looked  round  for  help  ; 
forward  could  not  go,  nor  backward,  but  clung  to  a  transient  ex- 
tinguished Life  with  unutterable  longing  ;  —  lo,  from  the  azure  dis- 
tance, down  from  the  heights  of  my  old  Blessedness,  came  a  chill 
breath  of  Dusk,  and  suddenly  the  band  of  Birth,  the  fetter  of  Light 
was  snapped  asunder.  Vanishes  the  Glory  of  Earth,  and  with  it 
my  Lamenting ;  rushes  together  the  infinite  Sadness  into  a  new 
unfathomable  World :  thou  Night's-inspiration,  Slumber  of  Heaven, 
earnest  over  me ;  the  scene  rose  gentl}-  aloft ;  over  the  scene  hov- 
ered my  enfranchised  new-born  spirit ;  to  a  cloud  of  dust  that  grave 
changed  itself ;  through  the  cloud  I  beheld  the  transfigured  features 
of  my  Beloved.  In  her  eyes  lay  Eternity  ;  I  clasped  her  hand,  and 
my  tears  became  a  glittering  indissoluble  chain.    Centuries  of  Ages 


124 


MISCELLANIES. 


moved  away  into  the  distance,  like  thunder-clouds.  On  her  neck  I 
wept,  for  this  new  life,  enrapturing  tears.  —  It  was  my  first,  only 
Dream ;  and  ever  since  then  do  I  feel  this  changeless  everlasting 
faith  in  the  Heaven  of  Night,  and  its  Sun  my  Beloved.' 

What  degree  of  critical  satisfaction,  what  insight  into  the 
grand  crisis  of  Novalis's  spiritual  history,  which  seems  to 
be  here  shadowed  forth,  our  readers  may  derive  from  this 
Third  Hymn  to  the  Night,  we  shall  not  pretend  to  conjec- 
ture. Meanwhile,  it  were  giving  them  a  false  impression  of 
the  Poet,  did  we  leave  him  here ;  exhibited  only  under  his 
more  mystic  aspects  :  as  if  his  Poetry  were  exclusively  a 
thing  of  Allegory,  dwelling  amid  Darkness  and  Vacuity, 
far  from  all  paths  of  ordinary  mortals  and  their  thoughts. 
Novalis  can  write  in  the  most  common  style,  as  well  as  in 
this  most  uncommon  one ;  and  there  too  not  without  origi- 
nality. By  far  the  greater  part  of  his  First  Volume  is 
occupied  with  a  Romance,  Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen,  writ- 
ten, so  far  as  it  goes,  much  in  the  every-day  manner;  we 
have  adverted  the  less  to  it,  because  we  nowise  reckoned  it 
among  his  most  remarkable  compositions.  Like  many  of 
the  others,  it  has  been  left  as  a  Fragment ;  nay,  from  the 
■  account  Tieck  gives  of  its  ulterior  plan,  and  how  from  the 
solid  prose  world  of  the  First  part,  this  'Apotheosis  of 
Poetry  '  was  to  pass,  in  the  Second,  into  a  mythical,  fairy 
and  quite  fantastic  world,  critics  have  doubted  whether, 
strictly  speaking,  it  could  have  been  completed.  From  this 
work  we  select  two  passages,  as  specimens  of  Novalis's  man- 
ner in  the  more  common  style  of  composition  ;  premising, 
which  in  this  one  instance  we  are  entitled  to  do,  that  what- 
ever excellence  they  may  have  will  be  universally  appreci- 
able. The  first  is  the  introduction  to  the  whole  Narrative, 
as  it  were  the  text  of  the  whole ;  the  '  Blue  Flower '  there 
spoken  of  being  Poetry,  the  real  object,  passion  and  vocation 
of  young  Heinrich,  which,  through  manifold  adventures,  ex- 
ertions and  sufferings,  he  is  to  seek  and  find.  His  history 
commences  thus  : 


NOVALIS. 


125 


'The  old  people  were  already  asleep;  the  clock  was  heating  its 
monotonous  tick  on  the  wall ;  the  wind  blustered  over  the  rattling 
windows  ;  by  turns,  the  chamber  was  lighted  by  the  sheen  of  the 
moon.  The  young  man  lay  restless  in  his  bed  ;  and  thought  of  the 
stranger  and  his  stories.  "Not  the  treasures  is  it,"  said  he  to  him- 
self, "  that  have  awakened  in  me  so  unspeakable  a  desire ;  far  from 
me  is  all  covetousness  ;  but  the  Blue  Flower  is  what  I  long  to  be- 
hold. It  lies  incessantly  in  my  heart,  and  I  can  think  and  fancy  of 
nothing  else.  Never  did  I  feel  so  before  :  it  is  as  if,  till  now,  I  had 
been  dreaming,  or  as  if  sleep  had  carried  me  into  another  world  ;  for 
in  the  world  I  used  to  live  in,  who  troubled  himself  about  flowers  ? 
Such  wild  passion  for  a  Flower  was  never  heard  of  there.  But 
whence  could  that  stranger  have  come  1  None  of  us  ever  saw  such 
a  man ;  yet  I  know  not  how  I  alone  was  so  caxight  with  his  dis- 
course :  the  rest  heard  the  very  same,  yet  none  seems  to  mind  it. 
And  then  that  I  cannot  even  speak  of  my  strange  condition  !  I  feel 
such  rapturous  contentment ;  and  only  then  when  I  have  not  the 
Flower  rightly  before  my  eyes,  does  so  deep  heartfelt  an  eagerness 
come  over  me  :  these  things  no  one  will  or  can  believe.  I  could 
fancy  I  were  mad,  if  I  did  not  see,  did  not  think  with  such  perfect 
clearness;  since  that  day,  all  is  far  better  known  to  me.  I  have 
heard  tell  of  ancient  times ;  how  animals  and  trees  and  rocks  used  to 
speak  with  men.  This  is  even  my  feeling ;  as  if  they  were  on  the 
point  of  breaking  out,  and  I  could  see  in  them,  what  they  wished  to 
say  to  me.  There  must  be  many  a  word  which  I  know  not ;  did  I 
know  more,  I  could  better  comprehend  these  matters.  Once  I  liked 
dancing;  now  I  had  rather  think  to  the  music."  —  The  young  man 
lost  himself,  by  degrees,  in  sweet  fancies,  and  fell  asleep.  He 
dreamed  first  of  immeasurable  distances,  and  wild  unknown  re- 
gions. He  wandered  over  seas  with  incredible  speed ;  strange 
animals  he  saw  ;  he  lived  with  many  varieties  of  men,  now  in  war, 
in  wild  tumult,  now  in  peaceful  huts.  He  was  taken  captive,  and 
fell  into  the  lowest  wretchedness.  All  emotions  rose  to  a  height  as 
yet  unknown  to  him.  He  lived  through  an  infinitely  variegated 
life ;  died  and  came  back  ;  loved  to  the  highest  passion,  and'  then 
again  was  forever  parted  from  his  loved  one.  At  length  towards 
morning,  as  the  dawn  broke  up  without,  his  spirit  also  grew  stiller, 
the  images  grew  clearer  and  more  permanent.  It  seemed  to  him  he 
was  walking  alone  in  a  dark  wood.  Only  here  and  there  did  day 
glimmer  through  the  green  net.  Erelong  he  came  to  a  rocky 
chasm,  which  mounted  upwards.  He  had  to  climb  over  many 
crags,  which  some  former  stream  had  rolled  down.  The  higher  he 
came,  the  lighter  grew  the  wood.   At  last  he  arrived  at  a  little 


126 


MISCELLANIES. 


meadow,  which  lay  on  the  declivity  of  the  mountain.  Beyond  the 
meadow  rose  a  high  cliff,  at  the  foot  of  which  lie  observed  an  open- 
ing, that  seemed  to  be  the  entrance  of  a  passage  hewn  in  the  rock. 
The  passage  led  him  easily  on,  for  some  time,  to  a  great  subter- 
ranean expanse,  out  of  which  from  afar  a  bright  gleam  was  visible. 
On  entering,  he  perceived  a  strong  beam  of  light,  which  sprang  as 
if  from  a  fountain  to  the  roof  of  the  cave,  and  sprayed  itself  into 
innumerable  sparks,  which  collected  below  in  a  great  basin  :  the 
beam  glanced  like  kindled  gold ;  not  the  faintest  noise  was  to  be 
heard,  a  sacred  silence  encircled  the  glorious  sight.  He  approached 
the  basin,  which  waved  and  quivered  with  infinite  hues.  The  walls 
of  the  cave  were  coated  with  this  fluid,  which  was  not  hot  but  cool, 
and  on  the  walls  threw  out  a  faint  bluish  light.  He  dipt  his  hand 
in  the  basin,  and  wetted  his  lips.  It  was  as  if  the  breath  of  a  spirit 
went  through  him  ;  and  he  felt  himself  in  his  inmost  heart  strength- 
ened and  refreshed.  An  irresistible  desire  seized  him  to  bathe  ;  he 
undressed  himself  and  stept  into  the  basin.  He  felt  as  if  a  sunset 
cloud  were  floating  round  him  ;  a  heavenly  emotion  streamed  over 
his  soul;  in  deep  pleasure  innumerable  thoughts  strove  to  blend 
within  him ;  new,  unseen  images  arose,  which  also  melted  together, 
and  became  visible  beings  around  him  ;  and  every  wave  of  that 
lovely  element  pressed  itself  on  him  like  a  soft  bosom.  The  flood 
seemed  a  Spirit  of  Beauty,  which  from  moment  to  moment  was 
taking  form  round  the  youth. 

'  Intoxicated  with  rapture,  and  yet  conscious  of  every  impression, 
he  floated  softly  down  that  glittering  stream,  which  flowed  out  from 
the  basin  into  the  rocks.  A  sort  of  sweet  slumber  fell  upon  him,  in 
which  he  dreamed  indescribable  adventures,  and  out  of  which  a  new 
light  awoke  him.  He  found  himself  on  a  soft  sward  at  the  margin 
of  a  spring,  which  welled  out  into  the  air,  and  seemed  to  dissipate 
itself  there.  Dark-blue  rocks,  with  many-coloured  veins,  rose  at 
some  distance;  the  daylight  which  encircled  him  was  clearer  and 
milder  than  the  common;  the  sky  was  black-blue,  and  altogether 
pure.  But  what  attracted  him  infinitely  most  was  a  high,  light-blue 
Flower,  which  stood  close  by  the  spring,  touching  it  with  its  broad 
glittering  leaves.  Bound  it  stood  innumerable  flowers  of  all  colours, 
and  the  sweetest  perfume  filled  the  air.  He  saw  nothing  but  the 
Blue  Flower  ;  and  gazed  on  it  long  with  nameless  tenderness.  At 
last  he  was  for  approaching,  when  all  at  once  it  began  to  move  and 
change;  the  haves  grew  more  resplendent,  and  clasped  themselves 
round  the  waxing  stem  ;  the  Flower  bent  itself  towards  him  ;  and 
the  petals  showed  like  a  blue  spreading  ruff,  in  which  hovered  a 
lovely  face.    His  sweet  astonishment  at  this  transformation  was 


NOVAElS. 


127 


increasing,  —  when  suddenly  his  mother's  voice  awoke  him,  and  he 
found  himself  in  the  house  of  his  parents,  which  the  morning  sun 
was  already  gilding.' 

Our  next  and  last  extract  is  likewise  of  a  dream.  Young 
Heinrich  with  his  mother  travels  a  long  journey  to  see  his 
grandfather  at  Augsburg  ;  converses,  on  the  way,  with  mer- 
chants, miners,  and  red-cross  warriors  (for  it  is  in  the  time 
of  the  Crusades)  ;  and  soon  after  his  arrival  falls  immeas- 
urably in  love  with  Matilda,  the  Poet  Klingsohr's  daughter, 
whose  face  was  that  fairest  one  he  had  seen  in  his  old  vision 
of  the  Blue  Flower.  Matilda,  it  would  appear,  is  to  be 
taken  from  him  by  death  (as  Sophie  was  from  Novalis)  : 
meanwhile,  dreading  no  such  event.  Heinrich  abandons  him- 
self with  full  heart  to  his  new  emotions  : 

'  He  went  to  the  window.  The  choir  of  the  Stars  stood  in  the 
deep  heaven ;  and  in  the  east,  a  white  gleam  announced  the  com- 
ing day. 

'Full  of  rapture,  Heinrich  exclaimed  :  "You,  ye  everlasting  Stars, 
ye« silent  wanderers,  I  call  you  to  witness  my  sacred  oath.  For  Ma- 
tilda will  I  live,  and  eternal  faith  shall  unite  my  heart  and  hers.  For 
me  too,  the  morn  of  an  everlasting  da}7  is  dawning.  The  night  is 
hy  :  to  the  rising  Sun,  I  kindle  myself  as  a  sacrifice  that  will  never 
be  extinguished." 

'  Heinrich  was  heated ;  and  not  till  late,  towards  morning,  did  he 
fall  asleep.  In  strange  dreams,  the  thoughts  of  his  soul  embodied 
themselves.  A  deep-blue  river  gleamed  from  the  plain.  On  its 
smooth  surface  floated  a  bark  ;  Matilda  was  sitting  there,  and  steer- 
ing. She  was  adorned  with  garlands  ;  was  singing  a  simple  Song, 
and  looking  over  to  him  with  fond  sadness.  His  bosom  was  full  of 
anxiety.  He  knew  not  why.  The  sky  was  clear,  the  stream  calm. 
Her  heavenly  countenance  was  mirrored  in  the  waves.  All  at  once 
the  bark  began  to  whirl.  He  called  earnestly  to  her.  She  smiled, 
and  laid  down  her  oar  in  the  boat,  which  continued  whirling.  An 
unspeakable  terror  took  hold  of  him.  He  dashed  into  the  stream ; 
but  he  could  not  get  forward;  the  water  carried  him.  She  beckoned, 
she  seemed  as  if  she  wished  to  say  something  to  him  ;  the  bark  was 
filling  with  water;  yet  she  smiled  with  unspeakable  affection,  and 
looked  cheerfully  into  the  vortex.  All  at  once  it  drew  her  in.  A 
faint  breath  rippled  over  the  stream,  which  flowed  on  as  calm  and 
glittering  as  before.    His  horrid  agony  robbed  him  of  consciousness. 


128 


MISCELLANIES. 


His  heart  ceased  beating.  On  returning  to  himself,  he  was  again  on 
dry  land.  It  seemed  as  if  he  had  floated  far.  It  was  a  strange  region. 
He  knew  not  what  had  passed  with  him.  His  heart  was  gone.  Un- 
til inking  he  walked  deeper  into  the  country.  He  felt  inexpressibly 
weary.  A  little  well  gushed  from  a  hill;  it  sounded  like  perfect  bells. 
With  his  hand  he  lifted  some  drops,  and  wetted  his  parched  lips.  Like 
a  sick  dream,  lay  the  frightful  event  behind  him.  Farther  and  farther 
he  walked ;  flowers  and  trees  spoke  to  him.  He  felt  so  well,  so  at 
home  in  the  scene.  Then  he  heard  that  simple  Song  again.  He  ran 
after  the  sounds.  Suddenly  some  one  held  him  by  the  clothes. 
"  Dear  Henry,"  cried  a  well-known  voice.  He  looked  round,  and 
Matilda  clasped  him  in  her  arms.  "  Why  didst  thou  run  from -me, 
dear  heart  1  "  said  she,  breathing  deep  :  "  I  could  scarcely  overtake 
thee."  Heinrich  wept.  He  pressed  her  to  him.  "Where  is  the 
river  ?  "  cried  he  in  tears.  —  "  Seest  thou  not  its  blue  waves  above 
us  ?  "  He  looked  up,  and  the  blue  river  was  flowing  softly  over  their 
heads.  "  Where  are  we,  dear  Matilda  1  "  —  "  With  our  Fathers."  — 
"Shall  we  stay  together  1 "  —  "Forever,"  answered  she,  pressing 
her  lips  to  his,  and  so  clasping  him  that  she  could  not  again  quit 
hold.  She  put  a  wondrous,  secret  Word  in  his  mouth,  and  it  pierced 
through  all  his  being.  He  was  about  to  repeat  it,  when  his  Grand- 
father called,  and  he  awoke.  He  would  have  given  his  life  to  remem- 
ber that  Word.' 

This  image  of  Death,  and  of  the  River  being  the  Sky  in 
that  other  and  eternal  country,  seems  to  us  a  fine  and 
touching  one :  there  is  in  it  a  trace  of  that  simple  sublimity, 
that  soft  still  pathos,  which  are  characteristics  of  Novalis, 
and  doubtless  the  highest  of  his  specially  poetic  gifts. 

But  on  these,  and  what  other  gifts  and  deficiencies  pertain 
to  him,  we  can  no  farther  insist :  for  now,  after  such  multifa- 
rious quotations,  and  more  or  less  stinted  commentaries,  we 
must  consider  our  little  enterprise  in  respect  of  Novalis  to 
have  reached  its  limits  ;  to  be,  if  not  completed,  concluded. 
Our  reader  has  heard  him  largely ;  on  a  great  variety  of 
topics,  selected  and  exhibited  here  in  such  manner  as  seemed 
the  fittest  for  our  object,  and  with  a  true  wish  on  our  part, 
that  what  little  judgment  was  in  the  mean  while  to  be  formed 
of  such  a  man,  might  be  a  fair  and  honest  one.  Some  of 
the  passages  we  have  translated  will  appear  obscure  ;  others, 


NOVALIS. 


129 


we  hope,  are  not  'without  symptoms  of  a  wise  and  deep 
meaning ;  the  rest  may  excite  wonder,  which  wonder  again 
it  will  depend  on  each  reader  for  himself,  whether  he  turn  to 
right  account  or  to  wrong  account,  whether  he  entertain  as 
the  parent  of  Knowledge,  or  as  the  daughter  of  Ignorance. 
For  the  great  body  of  readers,  we  are  aware,  there  can  be 
little  profit  in  Novalis,  who  rather  employs  our  time  than 
helps  us  to  kill  it ;  for  such  any  farther  study  of  him  would 
be  unadvisable.  To  others  again,  who  prize  Truth  as  the 
end  of  all  reading,  especially  to  that  class  who  cultivate 
moral  science  as  the  development  of  purest  and  highest 
Truth,  we  can  recommend  the  perusal  and  reperusal  of 
Novalis  with  almost  perfect  confidence.  If  they  feel,  with 
us,  that  the  most  profitable  employment  any  book  can  give 
them,  is  to  study  honestly  some  earnest,  deep-minded,  truth- 
loving  Man,  to  work  their  way  into  his  manner  of  thought, 
till  they  see  the  world  with  his  eyes,  feel  as  he  felt  and  judge 
as  he  judged,  neither  believing  nor  denying,  till  they  can  in 
some  measure  so  feel  and  judge,  —  then  we  may  assert,  that 
few  books  known  to  us  are  more  worthy  of  their  attention 
than  this.  They  will  find  it,  if  we  mistake  not,  an  unfath- 
omed  mine  of  philosophical  ideas,  where  the  keenest  intellect 
may  have  occupation  enough  ;  and  in  such  occupation,  with- 
out looking  farther,  reward  enough.  All  this,  if  the  reader 
proceed  on  candid  principles ;  if  not,  it  will  be  all  otherwise. 
To  no  man,  so  much  as  to  Novalis  is  that  famous  motto 
applicable : 

ieser,  wie  gefall '  iek  Dir  f 
Leser,  wie  gefdllst  Du  mir  f 

Reader,  how  likest  thou  me  ? 
Reader,  how  like  1  thee  ? 

For  the  rest,  it  were  but  a  false  proceeding  did  we  attempt 
any  formal  character  of  Novalis  in  this  place  ;  did  we  pre- 
tend with  such  means  as  ours  to  reduce  that  extraordinary 
nature  under  common  formularies  ;  and  in  few  words  sum 
ap  the  net  total  of  his  worth  and  worthlessness.    We  have 

VOL.  II.  9 


130 


MISCELLANIES. 


repeatedly  expressed  our  own  imperfect  knowledge  of  the 
matter,  and  our  entire  despair  of  bringing  even  an  approxi- 
mate picture  of  it  before  readers  so  foreign  to  him.  The 
kind  words,  '  amiable  enthusiast,'  '  poetic  dreamer  ; '  or  the 
unkind  ones,  '  German  mystic,'  '  crackbrained  rhapsodist,' 
are  easily  spoken  and  written ;  but  would  avail  little  in  this 
instance.  If  we  are  not  altogether  mistaken,  Novalis  cannot 
be  ranged  under  any  one  of  these  noted  categories  ;  but  be- 
longs to  a  higher  and  much  less  known  one,  the  significance 
of  which  is  perhaps  also  worth  studying,  at  all  events  will 
not  till  after  long  study  become  clear  to  us. 

Meanwhile  let  the  reader  accept  some  vague  impressions 
of  ours  on  this  subject,  since  we  have  no  fixed  judgment  to 
offer  him.  We  might  say,  that  the  chief  excellence  we  have 
remarked  in  Novalis  is  his  to  us  truly  wonderful  subtlety 
of  intellect;  his  power  of  intense  abstraction,  of  pursuing 
the  deepest  and  most  evanescent  ideas  through  their  thousand 
complexities,  as  it  were,  with  lynx  vision,  and  to  the  very 
limits  of  human  Thought.  He  was  well  skilled  in  mathe- 
matics, and,  as  we  can  easily  believe,  fond  of  that  science ; 
but  his  is  a  far  finer  species  of  endowment  than  any  required 
in  mathematics,  where  the  mind,  from  the  very  beginning  of 
Euclid  to  the  end  of  Laplace,  is  assisted  with  visible  symbols, 
with  safe  implements  for  thinking ;  nay,  at  least  in  what  is 
called  the  higher  mathematics,  has  often  little  more  than  a 
mechanical  superintendence  to  exercise  over  these.  This 
power  of  abstract  meditation,  when  it  is  so  sure  and  clear 
as  we  sometimes  find  it  with  Novalis,  is  a  much  higher  and 
rarer  one ;  its  element  is  not  mathematics,  but  that  Mathesis, 
of  which  it  has  been  said  many  a  Great  Calculist  has  not  even 
a  notion.  In  this  power,  truly,  so  far  as  logical  and  not  moral 
power  is  concerned,  lies  the  summary  of  all  Philosophic 
talent :  which  talent,  accordingly,  we  imagine  Novalis  to 
have  possessed  in  a  very  high  degree  ;  in  a  higher  degree 
than  almost  any  other  modern  writer  we  have  met  with. 

His  chief  fault,  again,  figures  itself  to  us  as  a  certain  un- 


NOVALIS.  131 

due  softness,  a  want  of  rapid  energy  ;  something  which  we 
might  term  passiveness  extending  both  over  his  mind  and  his 
character.  There  is  a  tenderness  in  Novalis,  a  purity,  a 
clearness,  almost  as  of  a  woman  ;  but  he  has  not,  at  least  not 
at  all  in  that  degree,  the  emphasis  and  resolute  force  of  a 
man.  Thus,  in  his  poetical  delineations,  as  we  complained 
above,  he  is  too  diluted  and  diffuse  ;  not  verbose  properly ; 
not  so  much  abounding  in  superfluous  words  as  in  superfluous 
circumstances,  which  indeed  is  but  a  degree  better.  In  his 
philosophical  speculations,  we  feel  as  if,  under  a  different 
form,  the  same  fault  were  now  and  then  manifested.  Here 
again,  he  seems  to  us,  in  one  sense,  too  languid,  too  passive. 
He  sits,  we  might  say,  among  the  rich,  fine,  thousandfold 
combinations,  which  his  mind  almost  of  itself  presents,  him ; 
but,  perhaps,  he  shows  too  little  activity  in  the  process,  is  too 
lax  in  separating  the  true  from  the  doubtful,  is  not  even  at 
the  trouble  to  express  his  truth  with  any  laborious  accuracy. 
With  his  stillness,  with  his  deep  love  of  Nature,  his  mild, 
lofty,  spiritual  tone  of  contemplation,  he  comes  before  us  in  a 
sort  of  Asiatic  character,  almost  like  our  ideal  of  some  an- 
tique Gymnosophist,  and  with  the  weakness  as  well  as  the 
strength  of  an  Oriental.  However,  it  should  be  remembered 
that  his  works  both  poetical  and  philosophical,  as  we  now  see 
them,  appear  under  many  disadvantages ;  altogether  imma- 
ture, and  not  as  doctrines  and  delineations,  but  as  the  rude 
draught  of  such ;  in  which,  had  they  been  completed,  much 
was  to  have  changed  its  shape,  and  this  fault,  with  many 
others,  might  have  disappeared.  It  may  be,  therefore,  that 
this  is  only  a  superficial  fault,  or  even  only  the  appearance  of 
a  fault,  and  has  its  origin  in  these  circumstances,  and  in  our 
imperfect  understanding  of  him.  In  personal  and  bodily 
habits,  at  least,  Novalis  appears  to  have  been  the  opposite  of 
inert ;  we  hear  expressly  of  his  quickness  and  vehemence 
of  movement. 

In  regard  to  the  character  of  his  genius,  or  rather  perhaps 
of  his  literary  significance,  and  the  form  under  which  he  dis- 


132 


MISCELLANIES. 


played  his  genius,  Tieck  thinks  he  may  be  likened  to  Dante. 
'  For  him,'  says  he,  '  it  had  become  the  most  natural  disposi- 
'  tion  to  regard  the  commonest  and  nearest  as  a  wonder,  and 
'  the  strange,  the  supernatural  as  something  common  ;  men's 
'  every-day  life  itself  lay  round  him  like  a  wondrous  fable, 
'  and  those  regions  which  the  most  dream  of  or  doubt  of  as 
'  of  a  thing  distant,  incomprehensible,  were  for  him  a  beloved 
'  home.  Thus  did  he,  uncorrupted  by  examples,  find  out  for 
'  himself  a  new  method  of  delineation  ;  and  in  his  multipli- 
*  city  of  meaning ;  in  his  view  of  Love,  and  his  belief  in 
4  Love,  as  at  once  his  Instructor,  his  Wisdom,  his  Religion  ; 
'  in  this  too  that  a  single  grand  incident  of  life,  and  one  deep 
'  sorrow  and  bereavement  grew  to  be  the  essence  of  his  Po- 
'  etry  and  Contemplation,  —  he,  alone  among  the  moderns, 
'  resembles  the  lofty  Dante ;  and  sings  us,  like  him,  an  un- 
'  fathomable,  mystic  song,  far  different  from  that  of  many 
'  imitators,  who  think  to  put  on  mysticism  and  put  it  off,  like 
'  a  piece  of  dress.'  Considering  the  tendency  of  his  poetic 
endeavours,  as  well  as  the  general  spirit  of  his  philosophy, 
this  flattering  comparison  may  turn  out  to  be  better  founded 
than  at  first  sight  it  seems  to  be.  Nevertheless,  were  we 
required  to  illustrate  Novalis  in  this  way,  which  at  all  times 
must  be  a  very  loose  one,  we  should  incline  rather  to  call  him 
the  German  Pascal  than  the  German  Dante.  Between  Pascal 
and  Novalis,  a  lover  of  such  analogies  might  trace  not  a  few 
points  of  resemblance.  Both  are  of  the  purest,  most  affection- 
ate moral  nature ;  both  of  a  high,  fine,  discursive  intellect ;  both 
are  mathematicians  and  naturalists,  yet  occupy  themselves 
chiefly  with  Religion  ;  nay,  the  best  writings  of  both  are  left  in 
the  shape  of  '  Thoughts,'  materials  of  a  grand  scheme,  which 
each  of  them,  with  the  views  peculiar  to  his  age,  had  planned, 
we  may  say,  for  the  furtherance  of  Religion,  and  which  neither 
of  them  lived  to  execute.  Nor  in  all  this  would  it  fail  to  be 
carefully  remarked,  that  Novalis  was  not  the  French  but  the 
German  Pascal  ;  and  from  the  intellectual  habits  of  the  one 
and  the  other,  many  national  contrasts  and  conclusions  might 


NOVALIS. 


133 


be  drawn ;  which  we  leave  to  those  that  have  a  taste  for  such 
parallels. 

We  have  thus  endeavoured  to  communicate  some  views 
not  of  what  is  vulgarly  called,  but  of  what  is  a  German  Mys- 
tic ;  to  afford  English  readers  a  few  glimpses  into  his  actual 
household  establishment,  and  show  them  by  their  own  inspec- 
tion how  he  lives  and  works.  We  have  done  it,  moreover, 
not  in  the  style  of  derision,  which  would  have  been  so  easy, 
but  in  that  of  serious  inquiry,  which  seemed  so  much  more 
profitable.  For  this  we  anticipate  not  censure,  but  thanks 
fi'om  our  readers.  Mysticism,  whatever  it  may  be,  should, 
like  other  actually  existing  things,  be  understood  in  well- 
informed  minds.  We  have  observed,  indeed,  that  the  old- 
established  laugh  on  this  subject  has  been  getting  rather 
hollow  of  late  ;  and  seems  as  if,  erelong,  it  would  in  a  great 
measure  die  away.  It  appears  to  us  that,  in  England,  there 
is  a  distinct  spirit  of  tolerant  and  sober  investigation  abroad, 
in  regard  to  this  and  other  kindred  matters  ;  a  persuasion, 
fast  spreading  wider  and  wider,  that  the  plummet  of  French 
or  Scotch  Logic,  excellent,  nay  indispensable  as  it  is  for  sur- 
veying all  coasts  and  harbours,  will  absolutely  not  sound  the 
deep-seas  of  human  Inquiry  ;  and  that  many  a  Voltaire  and 
Hume,  well-gifted  and  highly  meritorious  men,  were  far  wrong 
in  reckoning  that  when  their  six-hundred  fathoms  were  out, 
they  had  reached  the  bottom,  which,  as  in  the  Atlantic,  may 
lie  unknown  miles  lower.  Six-hundred  fathoms  is  the  lon- 
gest, and  a  most  valuable  nautical  line  :  but  many  men  sound 
with  six  and  fewer  fathoms,  and  arrive  at  precisely  the  same 
conclusion. 

'  The  day  will  come,'  said  Lichtenberg,  in  bitter  irony, 
'  when  the  belief  in  God  will  be  like  that  in  nursery  Spec- 
'  tres  ; '  or,  as  Jean  Paul  has  it,  '  Of  the  World  will  be  made 
'  a  World-Machine,  of  the  JEther  a  Gas,  of  God  a  Force,  and 
'  of  the  Second  World  —  a  Coffin.'  We  rather  think,  such  a 
day  will  not  come.    At  all  events,  while  the  battle  is  still 


134 


MISCELLANIES. 


waging,  and  that  Coffin-and-Gas  Philosophy  has  not  yet 
secured  itself  with  tithes  and  penal  statutes,  let  there  be  free 
scope  for  Mysticism,  or  whatever  else  honestly  opposes  it. 
A  fair  field  and  no  favour,  and  the  right  will  prosper !  '  Our 
'  present  time,'  says  Jean  Paul  elsewhere,  '  is  indeed  a  criti- 
'  cising  and  critical  time,  hovering  betwixt  the  wish  and  the 
'  inability  to  believe  ;  a  chaos  of  conflicting  times  :  but  even 
'  a  chaotic  world  must  have  its  centre,  and  revolution  round 
'  that  centre  ;  there  is  no  pure  entire  Confusion,  but  all  such 
^presupposes  its  opposite,  before  it  can  begin.' 


SIGNS  OF  THE  TIMES. 


135 


SIGNS  OF  THE  TIMES.* 
[1829.] 

It  is  no  very  good  symptom  either  of  nations  or  individu- 
als, that  they  deal  much  in  vaticination.  Happy  men  are 
full  of  the  present,  for  its  bounty  suffices  them  ;  and  wise 
men  also,  for  its  duties  engage  them.  Our  grand  business 
undoubtedly  is,  not  to  see  what  lies  dimly  at  a  distance,  but 
to  do  what  lies  clearly  at  hand. 

Know'st  thou  Yesterday,  its  aim  and  reason ; 
Work'st  thou  well  To-day,  for  worthy  things? 
Calmly  wait  the  Morrow's  hidden  season, 
Need'st  not  fear  what  hap  soe'er  it  brings. 

But  man's  '  large  discourse  of  reason  '  will  look  '  before  and 
after ; '  and,  impatient  of  the  '  ignorant  present  time,'  will 
indulge  in  anticipation  far  more  than  profits  him.  Seldom 
can  the  unhappy  be  persuaded  that  the  evil  of  the  day  is 
sufficient  for  it ;  and  the  ambitious  will  not  be  content  with 
present  splendour,  but  paints  yet  more  glorious  triumphs,  on 
the  cloud-curtain  of  the  future. 

The  case,  however,  is  still  worse  with  nations.  For  here 
the  prophets  are  not  one,  but  many ;  and  each  incites  and 
confirms  the  other ;  so  that  the  fatidical  fury  spreads  wider 
and  wider,  till  at  last  even  Saul  must  join  in  it.  For  there 
is  still  a  real  magic  in  the  action  and  reaction  of  minds  on 
one  another.  The  casual  deliration  of  a  few  becomes,  by 
this  mysterious  reverberation,  the  frenzy  of  many  ;  men  lose 
the  use,  not  only  of  their  understandings,  but  of  their  bodily 
1  Edinburgh  Review,  No.  98. 


136 


MISCELLANIES. 


senses  ;  while  the  most  obdurate  unbelieving  hearts  melt,  like 
the  rest,  in  the  furnace  where  all  are  cast  as  victims  and  as 
fuel.  It  is  grievous  to  think,  that  this  noble  omnipotence  of 
Sympathy  has  been  so  rarely  the  Aaron's-rod  of  Truth  and 
Virtue,  and  so  often  the  Enchanter's-rod  of  Wickedness  and 
Folly !  No  solitary  miscreant,  scarcely  any  solitary  maniac, 
would  venture  on  such  actions  and  imaginations,  as  large 
communities  of  sane  men  have,  in  such  circumstances,  enter- 
tained as  sound  wisdom.  Witness  long  scenes  of  the  French 
Revolution,  in  these  late  times  !  Levity  is  no  protection 
against  such  visitations,  nor  the  utmost  earnestness  of  charac- 
ter. The  New-England  Puritan  burns  witches,  wrestles  for 
months  with  the  horrors  of  Satan's  invisible  world,  and  all 
ghastly  phantasms,  the  daily  and  hourly  precursors  of  the 
Last  Day  ;  then  suddenly  bethinks  him  that  he  is  frantic, 
weeps  bitterly,  prays  contritely,  and  the  history  of  that 
gloomy  season  lies  behind  him  like  a  frightful  dream. 

Old  England  too  has  had  her  share  of  such  frenzies  and 
panics  ;  though  happily,  like  other  old  maladies,  they  have 
grown  milder  of  late :  and  since  the  days  of  Titus  Oates 
have  mostly  passed  without  loss  of  men's  lives  ;  or  indeed 
without  much  other  loss  than  that  of  reason,  for  the  time,  in 
the  sufferers.  In  this  mitigated  form,  however,  the  distem- 
per is  of  pretty  regular  recurrence  ;  and  may  be  reckoned  on 
at  intervals,  like  other  natural  visitations  ;  so  that  reasonable 
men  deal  with  it,  as  the  Londoners  do  with  their  fogs,  —  go 
cautiously  out  into  the  groping  crowd,  and  patiently  carry 
lanterns  at  noon  ;  knowing,  by  a  well-grounded  faith,  that 
the  sun  is  still  in  existence,  and  will  one  day  reappear.  How 
often  have  we  heard,  for  the  last  fifty  years,  that  the  country 
was  wrecked,  and  fast  sinking ;  whereas,  up  to  this  date,  the 
country  is  entire  and  afloat !  The  1  State  in  Danger '  is  a 
condition  of  things,  which  we  have  witnessed  a  hundred 
times ;  and  as  for  the  Church,  it  has  seldom  been  out  of 
'  danger '  since  we  can  remember  it. 

All  men  are  aware  that  the  present  is  a  crisis  of  this  sort ; 


SIGNS  OF  THE  TIMES. 


137 


and  why  it  lias  become  so.  The  repeal  of  the  Test  Acts,  and 
then  of  the  Catholic  disabilities,  has  struck  many  of  their 
admirers  with  an  indescribable  astonishment.  Those  things 
seemed  fixed  and  immovable ;  deep  as  the  foundations  of  the 
world  ;  and  lo,  in  a  moment  they  have  vanished,  and  their 
place  knows  them  no  more !  Our  worthy  friends  mistook 
the  slumbering  Leviathan  for  an  island  ;  often  as  they  had 
been  assured,  that  Intolerance  was,  and  could  be  nothing  but 
a  Monster  ;  and  so,  mooring  under  the  lee,  they  had  anchored 
comfortably  in  his  scaly  rind,  thinking  to  take  good  cheer  ; 
as  for  some  space  they  did.  But  now  their  Leviathan  has 
suddenly  dived  under ;  and  they  can  no  longer  be  fastened 
in  the  stream  of  time  ;  but  must  drift  forward  on  it,  even 
like  the  rest  of  the  world :  no  very  appalling  fate,  we  think, 
could  they  but  understand  it ;  which,  however,  they  will  not 
yet,  for  a  season.  Their  little  island  is  gone  ;  sunk  deep 
amid  confused  eddies  ;  and  what  is  left  worth  caring  for  in 
the  universe  ?  What  is  it  to  them,  that  the  great  continents 
of  the  earth  are  still  standing  ;  and  the  polestar  and  all  our 
loadstars,  in  the  heavens,  still  shining  and  eternal  ?  Their 
cherished  little  haven  is  gone,  and  they  will  not  be  com- 
forted !  And  therefore,  day  after  day,  in  all  manner  of  peri- 
odical or  perennial  publications,  the  most  lugubrious  predic- 
tions are  sent  forth.  The  King  has  virtually  abdicated  ;  the 
Church  is  a  widow,  without  jointure ;  public  principle  is 
gone  ;  private  honesty  is  going  ;  society,  in  short,  is  fast  fall- 
ing in  pieces  ;  and  a  time  of  unmixed  evil  is  come  on  us. 
At  such  a  period,  it  was  to  be  expected  that  the  rage  of 
prophecy  should  be  more  than  usually  excited.  Accordingly, 
the  Millenarians  have  come  forth  on  the  right  hand,  and 
the  Millites  on  the  left.  The  Fifth-monarchy  men  prophesy 
from  the  Bible,  and  the  Utilitarians  from  Bentham.  The 
one  announces  that  the  last  of  the  seals  is  to  be  opened,  posi- 
tively, in  the  year  1860  ;  and  the  other  assures  us,  that  'the 
greatest-happiness  principle '  is  to  make  a  heaven  of  earth, 
in     still  shorter  time.    We  know  these  symptoms  too  well, 


138 


MISCELLANIES. 


to  think  it  necessary  or  safe  to  interfere  with  them.  Time 
and  the  hours  will  bring  relief  to  all  parties.  The  grand 
encourager  of  Delphic  or  other  noises  is  —  the  Echo.  Left 
to  themselves,  they  will  the  sooner  dissipate,  and  die  away 
in  space. 

Meanwhile,  we  too  admit  that  the  present  is  an  important 
time ;  as  all  present  time  necessarily  is.  The  poorest  Day 
that  passes  over  us  is  the  conflux  of  two  Eternities  ;  it  is 
made  up  of  currents  that  issue  from  the  remotest  Past,  and 
flow  onwards  into  the  remotest  Future.  We  were  wise  in- 
deed, could  we  discern  truly  the  signs  of  our  own  time  ;  and 
by  knowledge  of  its  wants  and  advantages,  wisely  adjust  our 
own  position  in  it.  Let  us,  instead  of  gazing  idly  into  the 
obscure  distance,  look  calmly  around  us,  for  a  little,  on  the 
perplexed  scene  where  we  stand.  Perhaps,  on  a  more  seri- 
ous inspection,  something  of  its  perplexity  will  disappear, 
some  of  its  distinctive  characters  and  deeper  tendencies  more 
clearly  reveal  themselves  ;  whereby  our  own  relations  to  it, 
our  own  true  aims  and  endeavours  in  it,  may  also  become 
clearer. 

Were  we  required  to  characterise  this  age  of  ours  by  any 
single  epithet,  we  should  be  tempted  to  call  it,  not  an  Hero- 
ical,  Devotional,  Philosophical,  or  Moral  Age,  but,  above  all 
■  others,  the  Mechanical  Age.  It  is  the  Age  of  Machinery,  in 
every  outward  and  inward  sense  of  that  word  ;  the  age 
which,  with  its  whole  undivided  might,  forwards,  teaches  and 
practises  the  great  art  of  adapting  means  to  ends.  Nothing 
is  now  done  directly,  or  by  hand  ;  all  is  by  rule  and  calcu- 
lated contrivance.  For  the  simplest  operation,  some  helps 
and  accompaniments,  some  cunning  abbreviating  process  is 
in  readiness.  Our  old  modes  of  exertion  are  all  discredited, 
and  thrown  aside.  On  every  hand,  the  living  artisan  is 
driven  from  his  workshop,  to  make  room  for  a  speedier,  in- 
animate one.  The  shuttle  drops  from  the  fingers  of  the 
weaver,  and  falls  into  iron  fingers  that  ply  it  faster.  The 


SIGNS  OF  THE  TIMES. 


139 


sailor  furls  his  sail?  and  lays  down  his  oar  ;  and  bids  a  strong, 
unwearied  servant,  on  vaporous  wings,  bear  him  through  the 
waters.  Men  have  crossed  oceans  by  steam  ;  the  Birming- 
ham Fire-king  has  visited  the  fabulous  East :  and  the  genius 
of  the  Cape,  were  there  any  Camoens  now  to  sing  it,  has 
again  been  alarmed,  and  with  far  stonger  thunders  than 
Gama's.  There  is  no  end  to  machinery.  Even  the  horse  is 
stripped  of  his  harness,  and  finds  a  fleet  fire-horse  yoked  in 
his  stead.  Nay,  we  have  an  artist  that  hatches  chickens  by 
steam  ;  the  very  brood-hen  is  to  be  superseded !  For  all 
earthly,  and  for  some  unearthly  purposes,  we  have  machines 
and  mechanic  furtherances  ;  for  mincing  our  cabbages ;  for 
casting  us  into  magnetic  sleep.  We  remove  mountains,  and 
make  seas  our  smooth  highway  ;  nothing  can  resist  us.  We 
war  with  rude  Nature  ;  and,  by  our  resistless  engines,  come 
off  always  victorious,  and  loaded  with  spoils. 

What  wonderful  accessions  have  thus  been  made,  and  are 
still  making,  to  the  physical  power  of  mankind  ;  how  much 
better  fed,  clothed,  lodged  and,  in  all  outward  respects,  ac- 
commodated, men  now  are,  or  might  be,  by  a  given  quantity 
of  labour,  is  a  grateful  reflection  which  forces  itself  on  every 
one.  What  changes,  too,,  this  addition  of  power  is  introduc- 
ing into  the  Social  System  ;  how  wealth  has  more  and  more 
increased,  and  at  the  same  time  gathered  itself  more  and 
more  into  masses,  strangely  altering  the  old  relations,  and 
increasing  the  distance  between  the  rich  and  the  poor,  will 
be  a  question  for  Political  Economists,  and  a  much  more 
complex  and  important  one  than  any  they  have  yet  engaged 
with.  But  leaving  these  matters  for  the  present,  let  us  ob- 
serve how  the  mechanical  genius  of  our  time  has  diffused 
itself  into  quite  other  provinces.  Not  the  external  and  phys- 
ical alone  is  now  managed  by  machinery,  but  the  internal 
and  spiritual  also.  Here  too  nothing  follows  its  spontaneous 
course,  nothing  is  left  to  be  accomplished  by  old,  natural 
methods.  Everything  has  its  cunningly  devised  implements, 
its  preestablished  apparatus  ;  it  is  not  done  by  hand,  but  -by 


140 


MISCELLANIES. 


machinery.  Thus  we  have  machines  for  Education  :  Lan- 
castrian machines  ;  Hamiltonian  machines  ;  monitors,  maps 
and  emblems.  Instruction,  that  mysterious  communing  of 
Wisdom  with  Ignorance,  is  no  longer  an  indefinable  tentative 
process,  requiring  a  study  of  individual  aptitudes,  and  a  per- 
petual variation  of  means  and  methods,  to  attain  the  same 
end  ;  but  a  secure,  universal,  straightforward  business,  to  be 
conducted  in  the  gross,  by  proper  mechanism,  with  such 
intellect  as  comes  to  hand.  Then,  we  have  Religious  ma- 
chines, of  all  imaginable  varieties  ;  the  Bible-Society,  pro- 
fessing a  far  higher  and  heavenly  structure,  is  found,  on 
inquiry,  to  be  altogether  an  earthly  contrivance  ;  supported 
by  collection  of  moneys,  by  fomenting  of  vanities,  by  puffing, 
intrigue  and  chicane  ;  a  machine  for  converting  the  Heathen. 
It  is  the  same  in  all  other  departments.  Has  any  man,  or 
any  society  of  men,  a  truth  to  speak,  a  piece  of  spiritual 
work  to  do ;  they  can  nowise  proceed  at  once  and  with  the 
mere  natural  organs,  but  must  first  call  a  public  meeting, 
appoint  committees,  issue  prospectuses,  eat  a  public  dinner ; 
in  a  word,  construct  or  borrow  machinery,  wherewith  to 
speak  it  and  do  it.  Without  machinery  they  were  hopeless, 
helpless  ;  a  colony  of  Hindoo  weavers  squatting  in  the  heart 
of  Lancashire.  Mark,  too,  how  every  machine  must  have 
its  moving  power,  in  some  of  the  great  currents  of  society ; 
every  little  sect  among  us,  Unitarians,  Utilitarians,  Anabap- 
tists, Phrenologists,  must  have  its  Periodical,  its  monthly  or 
quarterly  Magazine  ;  —  hanging  out,  like  its  windmill,  into 
the  popularis  aura,  to  grind  meal  for  the  society. 

With  individuals,  in  like  manner,  natural  strength  avails 
little.  No  individual  now  hopes  to  accomplish  the  poorest 
enterprise  single-handed,  and  without  mechanical  aids  ;  he 
must  make  interest  with  some  existing  corporation,  and  till 
his  field  with  their  oxen.  In  these  days,  more  emphatically 
than  ever,  '  to  live,  signifies  to  unite  with  a  party,  or  to  make 
one.'  Philosophy,  Science,  Art,  Literature,  all  depend  on 
machinery.    No  Newton,  by  silent  meditation,  now  discovers 


SIGNS  OF  THE  TIMES. 


141 


the  system  of  the  world  from  the  falling  of  an  apple  ;  but 
some  quite  other  than  Newton  stands  in  his  Museum,  his 
Scientific  Institution,  and  behind  whole  batteries  of  retorts, 
digesters  and  galvanic  piles  imperatively  'interrogates  Na- 
ture,' —  who,  however,  shows  no  haste  to  answer.  In  defect 
of  Raphaels,  and  Angelos,  and  Mozarts,  we  have  Royal 
Academies  of  Painting,  Sculpture,  Music  ;  whereby  the  lan- 
guishing spirit  of  Art  may  be  strengthened,  as  by  the  more 
generous  diet  of  Public  Kitchen.  Literature,  too,  has  its 
Paternoster-row  mechanism,  its  Trade-dinners,  its  Editorial 
conclaves,  and  huge  subterranean,  puffing  bellows  ;  so  that 
books  are  not  only  printed,  but,  in  a  great  measure,  written 
and  sold,  by  machinery.  National  culture,  spiritual  benefit 
of  all  sorts,  is  under  the  same  management.  No  Queen 
Christina,  in  these  times,  needs  to  send  for  her  Descartes; 
no  King  Frederick  for  his  Voltaire,  and  painfully  nourish 
him  with  pensions  and  flattery :  any  sovereign  of  taste,  who 
wishes  to  enlighten  his  people,  has  only  to  impose  a  new 
tax,  and  with  the  proceeds  establish  Philosophic  Institutes. 
Hence  the  Royal  and  Imperial  Societies,  the  Bibliotheques, 
Glyptotheques,  Technotheques,  which  front  us  in  all  capital 
cities ;  like  so  many  well-finished  hives,  to  which  it  is  ex- 
pected the  stray  agencies  of  Wisdom  will  swarm  of  their 
own  accord,  and  hive  and  make  honey.  In  like  manner, 
among  ourselves,  when  it  is  thought  that  religion  is  declining, 
we  have  only  to  vote  half-a-million's  worth  of  bricks  and 
mortar,  and  build  new  churches.  In  Ireland,  it  seems  .they 
have  gone  still  farther ;  having  actually  established  a  '  Pen- 
ny-a-week  Purgatory-Society  !  '  Thus  does  the  Genius  of 
Mechanism  stand  by  to  help  us  in  all  difficulties  and  emer- 
gencies ;  and,  with  his  iron  back,  bears  all  our  burdens. 

These  things,  which  we  state  lightly  enough  here,  are  yet 
of  deep  import,  and  indicate  a  mighty  change  in  our  whole 
manner  of  existence.  For  the  same  habit  regulates  not 
our  modes  of  action  alone,  but  our  modes  of  thought  and 
feeling.    Men  are  grown  mechanical  in  head  and  in  heart,  j 


142 


MISCELLANIES. 


as  well  as  in  hand.  They  have  lost  faith  in  individual  en- 
deavour, and  in  natural  force,  of  any  kind.  Not  for  internal 
perfection,  but  for  external  combinations  and  arrangements, 
for  institutions,  constitutions,  —  for  Mechanism  of  one  sort  or 
other,  do  they  hope  and  struggle.  Their  whole  efforts,  at- 
tachments, opinions,  turn  on  mechanism,  and  are  of  a  me- 
chanical character. 

We  may  trace  this  tendency  in  all  the  great  manifestations 
of  our  time ;  in  its  intellectual  aspect,  the  studies  it  most 

•  favours  and  its  manner  of  conducting  them  ;  in  its  practical 
aspects,  its  politics,  arts,  religion,  morals  ;  in  the  whole 
sources,  and  throughout  the  whole  currents,  of  its  spiritual, 
no  less  than  its  material  activity. 

Consider,  for  example,  the  state  of  Science  generally,  in 
Europe,  at  this  period.    It  is  admitted,  on  all  sides,  that  the 

I  Metaphysical  and  Moral  Sciences  are  falling  into  decay, 
while  the  Physical  are  engrossing,  every  day,  more  respect 
and  attention.  In  most  of  the  European  nations,  there  is 
now  no  such  thing  as  a  Science  of  Mind ;  only  more  or  less 
advancement  in  the  general  science,  or  the  special  sciences, 
of  matter.  The  French  were  the  first  to  desert  Metaphys- 
ics; and  though  they  have  lately  affected  to  revive  their 
school,  it  has  yet  no  signs  of  vitality.  The  land  of  Male- 
branche,  Pascal,  Descartes  and  Fenelon,  has  now  only  its 
Cousins  and  Villemains ;  while,  in  the  department  of  Phys- 
ics, it  reckons  far  other  names.  Among  ourselves,  the  Phi- 
losophy of  Mind,  after  a  rickety  infancy,  which  never  reached 
the  vigour  of  manhood,  fell  suddenly  into  decay,  languished 
and  finally  died  out,  with  its  last  amiable  cultivator,  Professor 
Stewart.  In  no  nation  but  Germany  has  any  decisive  effort 
been  made  in  psychological  science  ;  not  to  speak  of  any  de- 
cisive result.  The  science  of  the  age,  in  short,  is  physical, 
chemical,  physiological  ;  in  all  shapes  mechanical.  Our  fa- 
vorite Mathematics,  the  highly  prized  exponent  of  all  these 
other  sciences,  has  also  become  more  and  more  mechanical. 
Excellence  in  what  is  called  its  higher  departments  depends 


SIGNS  OF  THE  TIMES. 


143 


less  on  natural  genius,  than  on  acquired  expertness  in  wield- 
ing its  machinery.  Without  undervaluing  the  wonderful 
results  which  a  Lagrange  or  Laplace  educes  by  means  of 
it,  we  may  remark,  that  their  calculus,  differential  and  inte- 
gral, is  little  else  than  a  moi-e  cunningly-constructed  arith- 
metical mill ;  where  the  factors  being  put  in,  are,  as  it  were, 
ground  into  the  true  product,  under  cover,  and  without  other 
effort  on  our  part  than  steady  turning  of  the  handle.  We 
have  more  Mathematics  than  ever ;  but  less  Mathesis. 
Archimedes  and  Plato  could  not  have  read  the  Mecanique 
Celeste;  but  neither  would  the  whole  French  Institute  see 
aught  in  that  saying,  '  God  geometrises ! '  but  a  sentimental 
rodomontade. 

Nay,  our  whole  Metaphysics  itself,  from  Locke's  time 
downwards,  has  been  physical ;  not  a  spiritual  philosophy, 
but  a  material  one.  The  singular  estimation  in  which  his 
Essay  was  so  long  held  as  a  scientific  work  (an  estimation 
grounded,  indeed,  on  the  estimable  character  of  the  man) 
will  one  day  be  thought  a  curious  indication  of  the  spirit  of 
these  times.  His  whole  doctrine  is  mechanical,  in  its  aim 
and  origin,  in  its  method  and  its  results.  It  is  not  a  philoso- 
phy of  the  mind :  it  is  a  mere  discussion  concerning  the  ori- 
gin of  our  consciousness,  or  ideas,  or  whatever  else  they  are 
called ;  a  genetic  history  of  what  we  see  in  the  mind.  The 
grand  secrets  of  Necessity  and  Freewill,  of  the  Mind's  vital 
or  non-vital  dependence  on  Matter,  of  our  mysterious  rela- 
tions to  Time  and  Space,  to  God,  to  the  Universe,  are  not,  in 
the  faintest  degree,  touched  on  in  these  inquiries ;  and  seem 
not  to  have  the  smallest  connexion  with  them. 

The  last  class  of  our  Scotch  Metaphysicians  had  a  dim 
notion  that  much  of  this  was  wrong ;  but  they  knew  not  how 
to  right  it.  The  school  of  Reid  had  also  from  the  first  taken 
a  mechanical  course,  not  seeing  any  other.  The  singular 
conclusions  at  which  Hume,  setting  out  from  their  admitted 
premises,  was  arriving,  brought  this  school  into  being ;  they 
let  loose  Instinct,  as  an  undiscriminating  bandog,  to  guard 


144 


MISCELLANIES. 


them  against  these  conclusions  ;  —  they  tugged  lustily  at  the 
logical  chain  by  which  Hume  was  so  coldly  towing  them  and 
the  world  into  bottomless  abysses  of  Atheism  and  Fatalism. 
But  the  chain  somehow  snapped  between  them ;  and  the 
issue  has  been  that  nobody  now  cares  about  either,  —  any 
more  than  about  Hartley's,  Darwin's,  or  Priestley's  contem- 
poraneous doings  in  England.  Hartley's  vibrations  and 
vibratiuncles,  one  would  think,  were  material  and  mechani- 
cal enough ;  but  our  Continental  neighbours  have  gone  still 
farther.  One  of  their  philosophers  has  lately  discovered, 
that  'as  the  liver  secretes  bile,  so  does  the  brain  secrete 
thought ; '  which  astonishing  discovery,  Dr.  Cabanis,  more 
lately  still,  in  his  Rapports  du  Physique  et  du  Morale  de 
V  Homme,  has  pushed  into  its  minutest  developments.  The 
metaphysical  philosophy  of  this  last  inquirer  is  certainly  no 
shadowy  or  unsubstantial  one.  He  fairly  lays  open  our 
moral  structure  with  his  dissecting-knives  and  real  metal 
probes ;  and  exhibits  it  to  the  inspection  of  mankind,  by 
Leuwenhoek  microscopes,  and  inflation  with  the  anatomical 
blowpipe.  Thought,  he  is  inclined  to  hold,  is  still  secreted 
by  the  brain  ;  but  then  Poetry  and  Religion  (and  it  is  really 
worth  knowing)  are  '  a  product  of  the  smaller  intestines ! ' 
We  have  the  greatest  admiration  for  this  learned  doctor : 
with  what  scientific  stoicism  he  walks  through  the  land  of 
wonders,  unwondering ;  like  a  wise  man  through  some  huge, 
gaudy,  imposing  Vauxhall,  whose  fire-works,  cascades  and 
symphonies,  the  vulgar  may  enjoy  and  believe  in,  —  but 
where  he  finds  nothing  real  but  the  saltpetre,  pasteboard  and 
catgut.  His  book  may  be  regarded  as  the  ultimatum  of  me- 
chanical metaphysics  in  our  time ;  a  remarkable  realisation 
of  what  in  Martinus  Scriblerus  was  still  only  an  idea,  that 
'  as  the  jack  had  a  meat-roasting  quality,  so  had  the  body  a 
thinking  quality,'  —  upon  the  strength  of  which  the  Nurera- 
bergers  were  to  build  a  wood-and-leather  man,  '  who  should 
reason  as  well  as  most  country  parsons.'  Vaucanson  did 
indeed  make  a  wooden  duck,  that  seemed  to  eat  and  digest ; 


SIGNS  OF  THE  TIMES. 


145 


but  that  bold  scheme  of  the  Nurembergers  remained  for  a 
more  modern  virtuoso. 

This  condition  of  the  two  great  departments  of  knowl- 
edge,—  the  outward,  cultivated  exclusively  on  mechanical 
principles ;  the  inward,  finally  abandoned,  because,  cultivated 
on  such  principles,  it  is  found  to  yield  no  result,  —  suffi- 
ciently indicates  the  intellectual  bias  of  our  time,  its  all-per- 
vading disposition  towards  that  line  of  inquiry.  In  fact,  an 
inward  persuasion  has  long  been  diffusing  itself,  and  now  and 
then  even  comes  to  utterance,  That,  except  the  external, 
there  are  no  true  sciences ;  that  to  the  inward  world  (if  there 
be  any)  our  only  conceivable  road  is  through  the  outward ; 
that,  in  short,  what  cannot,  be  investigated  and  understood 
mechanically,  cannot  be  investigated  and  understood  at  all. 
We  advert  the  more  particularly  to  these  intellectual  pro- 
pensities, as  to  prominent  symptoms  of  our  age,  because 
Opinion  is  at  all  times  doubly  related  to  Action,  first  as  cause, 
then  as  effect ;  and  the  speculative  tendency  of  any  age  will 
therefore  give  us,  on  the  whole,  the  best  indications  of  its 
practical  tendency. 

Nowhere,  for  example,  is  the  deep,  almost  exclusive  faith 
we  have  in  Mechanism  more  visible  than  in  the  Politics  of 
this  time.  Civil  government  does,  by  its  nature,  include 
much  that  is  mechanical,  and  must  be  treated  accordingly. 
We  term  it  indeed,  in  ordinary  language,  the  Machine  of 
Society,  and  talk  of  it  as  the  grand  working  wheel  from 
which  all  private  machines  must  derive,  or  to  which  they 
must  adapt,  their  movements.  Considered  merely  as  a 
metaphor,  all  this  is  well  enough ;  but  here,  as  in  so  many 
other  cases,  the  4  foam  hardens  itself  into  a  shell,'  and  the 
shadow  we  have  wantonly  evoked  stands  terrible  before  us, 
and  will  not  depart  at  our  bidding.  Government  includes 
much  also  that  is  not  mechanical,  and  cannot  be  treated  me- 
chanically ;  of  which  latter  truth,  as  appears  to  us,  the  politi- 
cal speculations  and  exertions  of  our  time  are  taking  less  and 
less  cognisance. 

vol.  nr.  10 


146 


MISCELLANIES. 


Nay,  in  the  very  outset,  we  might  note  the  mighty  interest 
taken  in  mere  political  arrangements,  as  itself  the  sign  of  a 
mechanical  age.  The  whole  discontent  of  Europe  takes  this 
direction.  The  deep,  strong  cry  of  all  civilised  nations,  —  a 
cry  which,  every  one  now  sees,  must  and  will  be  answered, 
is :  Give  us  a  reform  of  Government !  A  good  structure  of 
legislation,  a  proper  check  upon  the  executive,  a  wise  ar- 
rangement of  the  judiciary,  is  all  that  is  wanting  for  human 
happiness.  The  Philosopher  of  this  age  is  not  a  Socrates,  a 
Plato,  a  Hooker,  or  Taylor,  who  inculcates  on  men  the  neces- 
sity and  infinite  worth  of  moral  goodness,  the  great  truth 
that  our  happiness  depends  on  the  mind  which  is  within  us, 
and  not  on  the  circumstances  which  are  without  us  ;  but  a 
Smith,  a  De  Lolme,  a  Bentham,  who  chiefly  inculcates  the 
reverse  of  this,  —  that  our  happiness  depends  entirely  on 
external  circumstances  ;  nay,  that  the  strength  and  dignity 
of  the  mind  within  us  is  itself  the  creature  and  consequence 
of  these.  Were  the  laws,  the  government,  in  good  order,  all 
were  well  with  us ;  the  rest  would  care  for  itself !  Dissen- 
tients from  this  opinion,  expressed  or  implied,  are  now  rarely 
to  be  met  with ;  widely  and  angrily  as  men  differ  in  its  appli- 
cation, the  principle  is  admitted  by  all. 

Equally  mechanical,  and  of  equal  simplicity,  are  the 
methods  proposed  by  both  parties  for  completing  or  secur- 
ing this  all-sufficient  perfection  of  arrangement.  It  is  no 
longer  the  moral,  religious,  spiritual  condition  of  the  people 
that  is  our  concern,  but  their  physical,  practical,  economical 
condition,  as  regulated  by  public  laws.  Thus  is  the  Body- 
politic  more  than  ever  worshipped  and  tendered ;  but  the 
Soul-politic  less  than  ever.  Love  of  country,  in  any  high  or 
generous  sense,  in  any  other  than  an  almost  animal  sense, 
or  mere  habit,  has  little  importance  attached  to  it  in  such 
reforms,  or  in  the  opposition  shown  them.  Men  are  to  be 
guided  only  by  their  self-interests.  Good  government  is  a 
good  balancing  of  these  ;  and,  except  a  keen  eye  and  appetite 
for  self-interest,  requires  no  virtue  in  any  quarter.    To  both 


SIGNS  OF  THE  TIMES.  1-47 

parties  it  is  emphatically  a  machine :  to  the  discontented,  a 
'  taxing-machine  ; '  to  the  contented,  a  '  machine  for  securing 
property.'  Its  duties  and  its  faults  are  not  those  of  a  father, 
but  of  an  active  parish-constable. 

Thus  it  is  by  the  mere  condition  of  the  machine ;  by  pre- 
serving it  untouched,  or  else  by  reconstructing  it,  and  oiling 
it  anew,  that  man's  salvation  as  a  social  being  is  to  be  insured 
and  indefinitely  promoted.  Contrive  the  fabric  of  law  aright, 
and  without  farther  effort  on  your  part,  that  divine  spirit  of 
Freedom  which  all  hearts  venerate  and  long  for,  will  of  her- 
self come  to  inhabit  it ;  and  under  her  healing  wings  every 
noxious  influence  will  wither,  every  good  and  salutary  one 
more  and  more  expand.  Nay,  so  devoted  are  we  to  this 
principle,  and  at  the  same  time  so  curiously  mechanical,  that 
a  new  trade,  specially  grounded  on  it,  has  arisen  among  us, 
under  the  name  of  '  Codification,'  or  code-making  in  the 
abstract ;  whereby  any  people,  for  a  reasonable  consideration, 
may  be  accommodated  with  a  patent  code ;  —  more  easily 
than  curious  individuals  with  patent  breeches,  for  the  people 
does  not  need  to  be  measured  first. 

To  us  who  live  in  the  midst  of  all  this,  and  see  continually 
the  faith,  hope  and  practice  of  every  one  founded  on  Mech- 
anism of  one  kind  or  other,  it  is  apt  to  seem  quite  natural, 
and  as  if  it  could  never  have  been  otherwise.  Nevertheless, 
if  we  recollect  or  reflect  a  little,  we  shall  find  both  that  it  has 
been,  and  might  again  be  otherwise.  The  domain  of  Mech- 
anism,—  meaning  thereby  political,  ecclesiastical  or  other 
outward  establishments,  —  was  once  considered  as  embracing, 
and  we  are  persuaded  can  at  any  time  embrace,  but  a  limited 
portion  of  man's  interests,  and  by  no  means  the  highest 
portion. 

To  speak  a  little  pedantically,  there  is  a  science  of  Dynam- 
ics in  man's  fortunes  and  nature,  as  well  as  of  Mechanics, 
There  is  a  science  which  treats  of,  and  practically  addresses, 
the  primary,  unmodified  forces  and  energies  of  man,  the  mys- 
terious springs  of  Love,  and  Fear,  and  Wonder,  of  Enthu- 


148 


MISCELLANIES. 


siasm,  Poetry,  Religion,  all  which  have  a  truly  vital  and 
infinite  character ;  as  well  as  a  science  which  practically 
addresses  the  finite,  modified  developments  of  these,  when 
they  take  the  shape  of  immediate  'motives,'  as  hope  of 
reward,  or  as  fear  of  punishment. 

Now  it  is  certain,  that  in  former  times  the  wise  men,  the 
enlightened  lovers  of  their  kind,  who  appeared  generally  as 
Moralists,  Poets  or  Priests,  did,  without  neglecting  the  Me- 
chanical province,  deal  chiefly  with  the  Dynamical ;  applying 
themselves  chiefly  to  regulate,  increase  and  purify  the  inward 
primary  powers  of  man  ;  and  fancying  that  herein  lay  the 
main  difficulty,  and  the  hest  service  they  could  undertake. 
But  a  wide  difference  is  manifest  in  our  age.  For  the  wise 
men,  who  now  appear  as  Political  Philosophers,  deal  exclu- 
sively with  the  Mechanical  province  ;  and  occupying  them- 
selves in  counting  up  and  estimating  men's  motives,  strive  by 
curious  checking  and  balancing,  and  other  adjustments  of 
Profit  and  Loss,  to  guide  them  to  their  true  advantage : 
while,  unfortunately,  those  same  '  motives '  are  so  innumer- 
able, and  so  variable  in  every  individual,  that  no  really  use- 
ful conclusion  can  ever  be  drawn  from  their  enumeration. 
But  though  Mechanism,  wisely  contrived,  has  done  much  for 
man  in  a  social  and  moral  point  of  .view,  we  cannot  be  per- 
suaded that  it  has  ever  been  the  chief  source  of  his  worth  or 
happiness.  Consider  the  great  elements  of  human  enjoy- 
ment, the  attainments  and  possessions  that  exalt  man's  life 
to  its  present  height,  and  see  what  part  of  these  he  owes  to 
institutions,  to  Mechanism  of  any  kind ;  and  what  to  the  in- 
stinctive, unbounded  force,  which  Nature  herself  lent  him, 
and  still  continues  to  him.  Shall  we  say,  for  example,  that 
Science  and  Art  are  indebted  principally  to  the  founders  of 
Schools  and  Universities  ?  Did  not  Science  originate  rather, 
and  gain  advancement,  in  the  obscure  closets  of  the  Roger 
Bacons,  Keplers,  Newtons  ;  in  the  workshops  of  the  Fausts 
and  the  Watts  ;  wherever,  and  in  what  guise  soever  Nature, 
from  the  first  times  downwards,  had  sent  a  gifted  spirit  upon 


SIGNS  OF  THE  TIMES. 


149 


the  earth?  Again,  were  Homer  and  Shakspeare  members 
of  any  beneficed  guild,  or  made  Poets  by  means  of  it?  Were 
Painting  and  Sculpture  created  by  forethought,  brought  into 
the  world  by  institutions  for  that  end  ?  No  ;  Science  and 
Art  have,  from  first  to  last,  been  the  free  gift  of  Nature  ;  an 
unsolicited,  unexpected  gift ;  often  even  a  fatal  one.  These 
things  rose  up,  as  it  were,  by  spontaneous  growth,  in  the  free 
soil  and  sunshine  of  Nature.  They  were  not  planted  orj 
grafted,  nor  even  greatly  multiplied  or  improved  by  the  cul- 
ture or  manuring  of  institutions.  Generally  speaking,  they 
have  derived  only  partial  help  from  these  ;  often  enough 
have  suffered  damage.  They  made  constitutions  for  them- 
selves. They  originated  in  the  Dynamical  nature  of  man, 
not  in  his  Mechanical  nature. 

Or,  to  take  an  infinitely  higher  instance,  that  of  the  Chris- 
tian Religion,  which,  under  every  theory  of  it,  in  the  be- 
lieving or  unbelieving  mind,  must  ever  be  regarded  as  the 
crowning  glory,  or  rather  the  life  and  soul,  of  our  whole 
modern  culture :  How  did  Christianity  arise  and  spread 
abroad  among  men  ?  Was  it  by  institutions,  and  establish- 
ments, and  well-arranged  -systems  of  mechanism  ?  Not  so  ; 
on  the  contrary,  in  all  past  and  existing  institutions  for  those 
ends,  its  divine  spirit  has  invariably  been  found  to  languish 
and  decay.  It  arose  in  the  mystic  deeps  of  man's  soul ;  and 
was  spread  abroad  by  the  '  preaching  of  the  word,'  by  simple, 
altogether  natural  and  individual  efforts ;  and  flew,  like 
hallowed  fire,  from  heart  to  heart,  till  all  were  purified  and 
illuminated  by  it;  and  its  heavenly  light  shone,  as  it  still 
shines,  and  (as  sun  or  star)  will  ever  shine,  through  the 
whole  dark  destinies  of  man.  Here  again  was  no  Mech- 
anism ;  man's  highest  attainment  was  accomplished  Dynami- 
cally, not  Mechanically.  Nay,  we  will  venture  to  say,  that  no 
high  attainment,  not  even  any  far-extending  movement  among 
men,  was  ever  accomplished  otherwise.  Strange  as  it  may 
seem,  if  we  read  History  with  any  degree  of  thoughtfulness, 
we  shall  find,  that  the  checks  and  balances  of  Profit  and  Loss 


150 


MISCELLANIES. 


have  never  been  the  grand  agents  with  men ;  that  they  have 
never  been  roused  into  deep,  thorough,  all-pervading  efforts 
by  any  computable  prospect  of  Profit  and  Loss,  for  any  visi- 
ble, finite  object ;  but  always  for  some  invisible  and  infinite 
one.  The  Crusades  took  their  rise  in  Religion ;  their  visible 
object  was,  commercially  speaking,  worth  nothing.  It  was  the 
boundless  Invisible  world  that  was  laid  bare  in  the  imagina- 
tions of  those  men ;  and  in  its  burning  light,  the  visible- 
shrunk  as  a  scroll.  Not  mechanical,  nor  produced  by  me- 
chanical means,  was  this  vast  movement.  No  dining  at  Free- 
masons' Tavern,  with  the  other  long  train  of  modern  machin- 
ery ;  no  cunning  reconciliation  of  '  vested  interests,'  was 
required  here :  only  the  passionate  voice  of  one  man,  the 
rapt  soul  looking  through  the  eyes  of  one  man  ;  and  rugged, 
steel-clad  Europe  trembled  beneath  his  words,  and  followed 
him  whither  he  listed.  In  later  ages  it  was  still  the  same. 
The  Reformation  had  an  invisible,  mystic  and  ideal  aim  ;  the 
result  was  indeed  to  be  embodied  in  external  things ;  but  its 
spirit,  its  worth,  was  internal,  invisible,  infinite.  Our  English 
Revolution  too  originated  in  Religion.  Men  did  battle,  in 
those  old  days,  not  for  Purse-sake,  but  for  Conscience-sake. 
Nay,  in  our  own  days  it  is  no  way  different.  The  French 
Revolution  itself  had  something  higher  in  it  than  cheap 
bread  and  a  Habeas-corpus  act.  Here  too  was  an  Idea ; 
a  Dynamic,  not  a  Mechanic  force.  It  was  a  struggle,  though 
a  blind  and  at  last  an  insane  one,  for  the  infinite,  divine 
nature  of  Right  of  Freedom,  of  Country. 

Thus  does  man,  in  every  age,  vindicate,  consciously  or  un- 
consciously, his  celestial  birthright.  Thus  does  Nature  hold 
on  her  wondrous,  unquestionable  course  ;  and  all  our  systems 
and  theories  are  but  so  many  froth-eddies  or  sand-banks, 
which  from  time  to  time  she  casts  up,  and  washes  away. 
When  we  can  drain  the  Ocean  into  mill-ponds,  and  bottle 
up  the  Force  of  Gravity,  to  be  sold  by  retail,  in  gas-jars ; 
then  may  we  hope  to  comprehend  the  infinitudes  of  man's 
soul  under  formulas  of  Profit  and  Loss  ;  and  rule  over  this 


SIGNS  OF  THE  TIMES. 


151 


too,  as  over  a  patent  engine,  by  checks,  and  valves,  and  bal- 
ances. 

Nay,  even  with  regard  to  Government  itself,  can  it  be 
necessary  to  remind  any  one  that  Freedom,  without  which 
indeed  all  spiritual  life  is  impossible,  depends  on  infinitely 
more  complex  influences  than  either  the  extension  or  the 
curtailment  of  the  '  democratic  interest  ? '  Who  is  there 
that,  '  taking  the  high  priori  road,'  shall  point  out  what  these 
influences  are ;  what  deep,  subtle,  inextricably  entangled  in- 
fluences they  have  been  and  may  be  ?  For  man  is  not  the 
creature  and  product  of  Mechanism ;  but,  in  a  far  truer 
sense,  its  creatorjtnd  producer :  it  is  the  noble  People  that 
makes  the  noble  Government ;  rather  than  conversely.  On 
the  whole,  Institutions  are  much ;  but  they  are  not  all.  The 
freest  and  highest  spirits  of  the  world  have  often  been  found 
under  strange  outward  circumstances  :  Saint  Paul  and  his 
brother  Apostles  were  politically  slaves  ;  Epictetus  was  per- 
sonally one.  Again,  forget  the  influences  of  Chivalry  and 
Religion,  and  ask :  What  countries  produced  Columbus  and 
Las  Casas  ?  Or,  descending  from  virtue  and  heroism,  to 
mere  energy  and  spiritual  talent :  Cortes,  Pizarro,  Alba. 
Ximenes  ?  The  Spaniards  of  the  sixteenth  century  were 
indisputably  the  noblest  nation  of  Europe ;  yet  they  had  the 
Inquisition  and  Philip  II.  They  have  the  same  government 
at  this  day  ;  and  are  the  lowest  nation.  The  Dutch  too  have 
retained  their  old  constitution ;  but  no  Siege  of  Leyden,  no 
William  the  Silent,  not  even  an  Egmont  or  De  Witt  any 
longer  appears  among  them.  With  ourselves  also,  where 
much  has  changed,  effect  has  nowise  followed  cause  as  it 
should  have  done :  two  centuries  ago,  the  Commons  Speaker 
addressed  Queen  Elizabeth  on  bended  knees,  happy  that  the 
virago's  foot  did  not  even  smite  him  ;  yet  the  people  were 
then  governed,  not  by  a  Castlereagh,  but  by  a  Burghley ; 
they  had  their  Shakspeare  and  Philip  Sidney,  where  we  have 
our  Sheridan  Knowles  and  Beau  Brummel. 

These  and  the  like  facts  are  so  familiar,  the  truths  which 


152 


MISCELLANIES. 


they  preach  so  obvious,  and  have  in  all  past  times  been  so 
universally  believed  and  acted  on,  that  we  should  almost  feel 
ashamed  for  repeating  them ;  were  it  not  that,  on  every  hand, 
the  memory  of  them  seems  to  have  passed  away,  or  at  best 
died  into  a  faint  tradition  of  no  value  as  a  practical  princi- 
ple. To  judge  by  the  loud  clamour  of  our  Constitution-build- 
ers, Statists,  Economists,  directors,  creators,  reformers  of 
Public  Societies  ;  in  a  word,  all  manner  of  Mechanists,  from 
the  Cartwright  up  to  the  Code-maker ;  and  by  the  nearly 
total  silence  of  all  Preachers  and  Teachers  who  should  give 
a 'voice  to  Poetry,  Religion  and  Morality,  we  might  fancy 
either  that  man's  Dynamical  nature  was,  to  all  spiritual 
intents,  extinct,  or  else  so  perfected  that  nothing  more  was 
to  be  made  of  it  by  the  old  means ;  and  henceforth,  only  in 
his  Mechanical  contrivances  did  any  hope  exist  for  him. 

To  define  the  limits  of  these  two  departments  of  man's 
activity,  which  work  into  one  another,  and  by  means  of  one 
another,  so  intricately  and  inseparably,  were  by  its  nature 
an  impossible  attempt.  Their  relative  importance,  even  to 
the  wisest  mind,  will  vary  in  different  times,  according  to  the 
special  wants  and  dispositions  of  these  times.  Meanwhile,  it 
seems  clear  enough  that  only  in  the  right  coordination  of  the 
two,  and  the  vigorous  forwarding  of  both,  does  our  true  line 
of  action  lie.  Undue  cultivation  of  the  inward  or  Dynami- 
cal province  leads  to  idle,  visionary,  impracticable  courses, 
and,  especially  in  rude  eras,  to  Superstition  and  Fanaticism, 
with  their  long  train  of  baleful  and  well-known  evils.  Undue 
cultivation  of  the  outward,  again,  though  less  immediately 
prejudicial,  and  even  for  the  time  productive  of  many  pal- 
pable benefits,  must,  in  the  long-run,  by  destroying  Moral 
Force,  which  is  the  parent  of  all  other  Force,  prove  not  less 
certainly,  and  perhaps  still  more  hopelessly,  pernicious.  This, 
we  take  it,  is  the  grand  characteristic  of  our  age.  By  our 
skill  in  Mechanism,  it  has  come  to  pass,  that  in  the  manage- 
ment of  external  things  we  excel  all  other  ages ;  while  in 
whatever  respects  the  pure  moral  nature,  in  true  dignity  of 


SIGNS  OF  THE  TIMES. 


153 


soul  and  character,  we  are  perhaps  inferior  to  most  civilised  } 
ages. 

In  fact,  if  we  look  deeper,  we  shall  find  that  this  faith  in 
Mechanism  has  now  struck  its  roots  down  into  man's  most 
intimate,  primary  sources  of  conviction  ;  and  is  thence  send- 
ing up,  over  his  whole  life  and  activity,  innumerable  stems, 
—  fruit-bearing  and  poison-bearing.  The  truth  is,  men  have 
lost  their  belief  in  the  Invisible,  and  believe,  and  hope,  and 
work  only  in  the  Visible  ;  or,  to  speak  it  in  other  words  : 
This  is  not  a  Religious  age.  Only  the  material,  the  imme- 
diately practical,  not  the  divine  and  spiritual,  is  important  to 
us.  The  infinite,  absolute  character  of  Virtue  has  passed 
into  a  finite,  conditional  one ;  it  is  no  longer  a  worship  of  the 
Beautiful  and  Good ;  but  a  calculation  of  the  Profitable. 
Worship,  indeed,  in  any  sense,  is  not  recognised  among  us,  or 
is  mechanically  explained  into  Fear  of  pain,  or  Hope  of 
pleasui'e.  Our  true  Deity  is  Mechanism.  It  has  subdued 
external  Nature  for  us,  and  we  think  it  will  do  all  other 
things.  "We  are  Giants  in  physical  power :  in  a  deeper  than 
metaphorical  sense,  we  are  Titans,  that  strive,  by  heaping 
mountain  on  mountain,  to  conquer  Heaven  also. 

The  strong  Mechanical  character,  so  visible  in  the  spiritual 
pursuits  and  methods  of  this  age,  may  be  traced  much  far- 
ther into  the  condition  and  prevailing  disposition  of  our  spir- 
itual nature  itself.  Consider,  for  example,  the  general  fash- 
ion of  Intellect  in  this  era.  Intellect,  the  power  man  has  of 
knowing  and  believing,  is  now  nearly  synonymous  with  Logic, 
or  the  mere  power  of  arranging  and  communicating.  Its 
implement  is  not  Meditation,  but  Argument.  '  Cause  and 
effect '  is  almost  the  only  category  under  which  we  look  at, 
and  work  with,  all  Nature.  Our  first  question  with  regard 
to  any  object  is  not,  What  is  it  ?  but,  How  is  it  ?  We  are 
no  longer  instinctively  driven  to  apprehend,  and  lay  to  heart, 
what  is  Good  and  Lovely,  but  rather  to  inquire,  as  onlookers, 
how  it  is  produced,  whence  it  comes,  whither  it  goes.  Our 
favourite  Philosophers  have  no  love  and  no  hatred;  they 


154 


MISCELLANIES. 


stand  among  us  not  to  do,  nor  to  create  anything,  but  as  a 
sort  of  Logic-mills  to  grind  out  the  true  causes  and  effects  of 
all  that  is  done  and  created.  To  the  eye  of  a  Smith,  a 
Hume  or  a  Constant,  all  is  well  that  works  quietly.  An 
Order  of  Ignatius  Loyola,  a  Presbyterianism  of  John  Knox, 
a  Wickliffe  or  a  Henry  the  Eighth,  are  simply  so  many 
mechanical  phenomena,  caused  or  causing. 

The  Euphuist  of  our  day  differs  much  from  his  pleasant 
predecessors.  An  intellectual  dapperling  of  these  times 
boasts  chiefly  of  his  irresistible  perspicacity,  his  'dwelling  in 
the  daylight  of  truth,'  and  so  forth  ;  which,  on  examination, 
turns  out  to  be  a  dwelling  in  the  rasA-light  of  '  closet-logic,' 
and  a  deep  unconsciousness  that  there  is  any  other  light  to 
dwell  in  or  any  other  objects  to  survey  with  it.  Wonder, 
indeed,  is,  on  all  hands,  dying  out :  it  is  the  sign  of  unculti- 
vation  to  wonder.  Speak  to  any  small  man  of  a  high,  ma- 
jestic Reformation,  of  a  high,  majestic  Luther;  and  forthwith 
he  sets  about  'accounting'  for  it;  how  the  'circumstances 
of  the  time '  called  for  such  a  character,  and  found  him,  we 
suppose,  standing  girt  and  road-ready,  to  do  its  errand  ;  how 
the  '  circumstances  of  the  time '  created,  fashioned,  floated 
him  quietly  along  into  the  result ;  how,  in  short,  this  small 
man,  had  he  been  there,  could  have  performed  the  like  him- 
self! For  it  is  the  'force  of  circumstances'  that  does  every- 
thing ;  the  force  of  one  man  can  do  nothing.  Now  all  this  is 
grounded  on  little  more  than  a  metaphor.  We  figure  Society 
tas  a  '  Machine,'  and  that  mind  is  opposed  to  mind,  as  body  is 
po  body;  whereby  two,  or  at  most  ten,  little  minds  must  be 
stronger  than  one  great  mind.  Nohiblejibsuixlity  !  For  the 
plain  truth,  very  plain,  we  think,  is,  that  minds  are  opposed 
to  minds  in  quite  a  different  way ;  and  one  man  that  has  a 
higher  Wisdom,  a  hitherto  unknown  spiritual  Truth  in  him, 
is  stronger,  not  than  ten  men  that  have  it  not,  or  than 
ten  thousand,  but  than  all  men  that  have  it  not ;  and 
stands  among  them  with  a  quite  ethereal,  angelic  power, 
as  with  a  sword  out  of  Heaven's  own  armory,  sky-tempered, 


SIGNS  OF  THE  TIMES. 


155 


which  no  buckler,  and  no  tower  of  brass,  will  finally  with- 
stand. 

But  to  us,  in  these  times,  such  considerations  rarely  occur. 
We  enjoy,  we  see  nothing  by  direct  vision;  but  only  by  re-' 
flection,  and  in  anatomical  dismemberment.  Like  Sir  Hudi- 
bras,  for  every  Why  we  must  have  a  Wherefore.  We  have 
our  little  theory  on  all  human  and  divine  things.  Poetry, 
the  workings  of  genius  itself,  which  in  all  times,  with  one  or 
another  meaning,  has  been  called  Inspiration,  and  held  to  be 
mysterious  and  inscrutable,  is  no  longer  without  its  scientific 
exposition.  The  building  of  the  lofty  rhyme  is  like  any  other 
masonry  or  bricklaying :  we  have  theories  of  its  rise,  height, 
decline  and  fall,  —  which  latter,  it  would  seem,  is  now  near, 
among  all  people.  Of  our  '  Theories  of  Taste,'  as  they  are 
called,  wherein  the  deep,  infinite,  unspeakable  Love  of  Wis- 
dom and  Beauty,  which  dwells  in  all  men,  is  '  explained,' 
made  mechanically  visible,  from  '  Association '  and  the  like, 
why  should  we  say  anything  ?  Hume  has  written  us  a  '  Nat- 
ural History  of  Religion  ; '  in  which  one  Natural  History  all 
the  rest  are  included.  Strangely  too  does  the  general  feeling 
coincide  with  Hume's  in  this  wonderful  problem ;  for  whether 
his  '  Natural  History '  be  the  right  one  or  not,  that  Religion 
must  have  a  Natural  History,  all  of  us,  cleric  and  laic,  seem 
to  be  agreed.  He  indeed  regards  it  as  a  Disease,  we  again 
as  Health ;  so  far  there  is  a  difference  ;  but  in  our  first  prin- 
ciple we  are  at  one. 

To  what  extent  theological  Unbelief,  we  mean  intellectual 
dissent  from  the  Church,  in  its  view  of  Holy  Writ,  prevails: 
at  this  day,  would  be  a  highly  important,  were  it  not,  under 
any  circumstances,  an  almost  impossible  inquiry.  But  the 
Unbelief,  which  is  of  a  still  more  fundamental  character, 
every  man  may  see  prevailing,  with  scarcely  any  but  the 
faintest  contradiction,  all  around  him  ;  even  in  the  Pulpit 
itself.  Religion  in  most  countries,  more  or  less  in  every 
country,  is  no  longer  what  it  was,  and  should  be,  —  a  thou- 
sand-voiced psalm  from  the  heart  of  Man  to  his  invisible 


156 


MISCELLANIES. 


Father,  the  fountain  of  all  Goodness,  Beauty,  Truth,  and 
revealed  in  every  revelation  of  these ;  but  for  the  most  part, 
a  wise  prudential  feeling  grounded  on  mere  calculation ;  a 
matter,  as  all  others  now  are,  of  Expediency  and  _ Utility  ; 
whereby  some  smaller  quantum  of  earthly  enjoyment  may 
be  exchanged  for  a  far  larger  quantum  of  celestial  enjoyment. 
Thus  Religion  too  is  Profit,  a  working  for  wages  ;  not  Rev- 
erence, but  vulgar  Hope  or  Fear.  Many,  we  know,  very 
many,  we  hope,  are  still  religious  in  a  far  different  sense  ;  were 
it  not  so,  our  case  were  too  desperate  :  but  to  witness  that 
such  is  the  temper  of  the  times,  we  take  any  calm  observant 
man,  who  agrees  or  disagrees  in  our  feeling  on  the  matter, 
and  ask  him  whether  our  view  of  it  is  not  in  general  well- 
founded. 

Literature  too,  if  we  consider  it,  gives  similar  testimony. 
At  no  former  era  has  Literature,  the  printed  communication 
of  Thought,  been  of  such  importance  as  it  is  now.  We  often 
hear  that  the  Church  is  in  danger  ;  and  truly  so  it  is,  —  in  a 
danger  it  seems  not  to  know  of :  for,  with  its  tithes  in  the 
most  perfect  safety,  its  functions  are  becoming  more  and 
more  superseded.  The  true  Church  of  England,  at  this  mo- 
ment, lies  in  the  Editors  of  its  Newspapers.  These  preach 
to  the  people  daily,  weekly  ;  admonishing  kings  themselves ; 
advising  peace  or  war,  with  an  authority  which  only  the  first 
Reformers,  and  a  long-past  class  of  Popes,  were  possessed 
of;  inflicting  moral  censure;  imparting  moral  encourage- 
ment, consolation,  edification  ;  in  all  ways  diligently  '  admin- 
istering the  Discipline  of  the  Church.'  It  may  be  said  too, 
that  in  private  disposition  the  new  Preachers  somewhat  re- 
semble the  Mendicant  Friars  of  old  times  :  outwardly  full  of 
holy  zeal ;  inwardly  not  without  stratagem,  and  hunger  for 
terrestrial  things.  But  omitting  this  class,  and  the  boundless 
host  of  watery  personages  who  pipe,  as  they  are  able,  on  so 
many  scrannel  straws,  let  us  look  at  the  higher  regions  of 
Literature,  where,  if  anywhere,  the  pure  melodies  of  Poesy 
and  Wisdom  should  be  heard.    Of  natural  talent  there  is  no 


SIGNS  OF  THE  TIMES. 


157 


deficiency :  one  or  two  richly-endowed  individuals  even  give 
us  a  superiority  m  this  respect.  But  what  is  the  song  they 
sing  ?  Is  it  a  tone  of  the  Memnon  Statue,  breathing  music 
as  the  light  first  touches  it  ?  A  '  liquid  wisdom,'  disclosing  to 
our  sense  the  deep,  infinite  harmonies  of  Nature  and  man's 
soul  ?  Alas,  no !  It  is  not  a  matin  or  vesper  hymn  to  the 
Spirit  of  Beauty,  but  a  fierce  clashing  of  cymbals,  and  shout- 
ing of  multitudes,  as  children  pass  through  the  fire  to  Moloch! 
Poetry  itself  has  no  eye  for  the  Invisible.  Beauty  is  no 
longer  the  god  it  worships,  but  some  brute  image  of  Strength  ; 
which  we  may  well  call  an  idol,  for  true  Strength  is  one  and 
the  same  with  Beauty,  and  its  worship  also  is  a  hymn.  The 
meek,  silent  Light  can  mould,  create  and  purify  all  Nature  ; 
but  the  loud  "Whirlwind,  the  sign  and  product  of  Disunion, 
of  Weakness,  passes  on,  and  is  forgotten.  How  widely  this 
veneration  for  the  physically  Strongest  has  spread  itself 
through  Literature,  any  one  may  judge,  who  reads  either 
criticism  or  poem.  "We  praise  a  work,  not  as  '  true,'  but  as 
'strong;'  our  highest  praise  is  that  it  has  'affected'  us,  has 
'  terrified '  us.  All  this,  it  has  been  well  observed,  is  the 
'  maximum  of  the  Barbarous,'  the  symptom,  not  of  vigorous 
refinement,  but  of  luxurious  corruption.  It  speaks  much, 
too,  for  men's  indestructible  love  of  truth,  that  nothing  of  this 
kind  will  abide  with  them ;  that  even  the  talent  of  a  Byron 
cannot  permanently  seduce  us  into  idol-worship  ;  that  he  too, 
with  all  his  wild  siren  charming,  already  begins  to  be  dis- 
regarded and  forgotten. 

Again,  with  respect  to  our  Moral  condition :  here  also,  he 
who  runs  may  read  that  the  same  physical,  mechanical  influ- 
ences are  everywhere  busy.  For  the  '  superior  morality,'  of 
which  we  hear  so  much,  we  too  would  desire  to  be  thankful : 
at  the  same  time,  it  were  but  blindness  to  deny  that  this 
'  superior  morality '  is  properly  rather  an  '  inferior  criminal- 
ity,' produced  not  by  greater  love  of  Virtue,  but  by  greater 
perfection  of  Police ;  and  of  that  far  subtler  and  stronger 
Police,  called  Public  Opinion.    This  last  watches  over  us 


158 


MISCELLANIES. 


with  its  Argus  eyes  more  keenly  than  ever  ;  but  the  *  inward 
eye '  seems  heavy  with  sleep.  Of  any  belief  in  invisible, 
divine  things,  we  find  as  few  traces  in  our  Morality  as  else- 
where. It  is  by  tangible,  material  considerations  that  we  are 
guided,  not  by  inward  and  spiritual.  Self-denial,  the  parent 
of  all  virtue,  in  any  true  sense  of  that  word,  has  perhaps 
seldom  been  rarer :  so  rare  is  it,  that  the  most,  even  in  their 
abstract  speculations,  regard  its  existence  as  a  chimera. 
Virtue  is  Pleasure,  is  Profit ;  no  celestial,  but  an  earthly 
thing.  Virtuous  men,  Philanthropists,  Martyrs  are  happy 
accidents  ;  their  '  taste  '  lies  the  right  way !  In  all  senses, 
Ave  worship  and  follow  after  Power ;  which  may  be  called  a 
physical  pursuit.  No  man  now  loves  Truth,  as  Truth  must 
be  loved,  with  an  infinite  love ;  but  only  with  a  finite  love, 
and  as  it  were  par  amours.  Nay,  properly  speaking,  he  does 
not  believe  and  know  it,  but  only  1  thinks  '  it,  and  that  '  there 
is  every  probability  ! '  He  preaches  it  aloud,  and  rushes  cou- 
rageously forth  with  it,  —  if  there  is  a  multitude  huzzaing  at 
his  back;  yet  ever  keeps  looking  over  his  shoulder,  and  the 
instant  tin;  huzzaing  languishes,  he  too  stops  short.  In  fact, 
what  morality  we  have  takes  the  shape  of  Ambition,  of  Hon- 
our: beyond  money  and  money's  worth,  our  only  rational 
blessedness  is  Popularity.  It  were  but  a  fool's  trick  to  die 
for  conscience.  Oidy  for  '  character,'  by  duel,  or,  in  case  of 
extremity,  by  suicide,  is  the  wise  man  bound  to  die.  By 
arguing  on  the  '  force  of  circumstances,'  we  have  argued 
away  all  force  from  ourselves  ;  and  stand  leashed  together, 
uniform  in  dress  and  movement,  like  the  rowers  of  some 
boundless  galley.  This  and  that  may  be  right  and  true  ; 
but  we  must  not  do  it.  Wonderful  '  Force  of  Public  Opin- 
ion !  '  We  must  act  and  walk  in  all  points  as  it  prescribes  ; 
follow  the  traffic  it  bids  us,  realise  the  sum  of  money,  the 
degree  of  '  influence'  it  expects  of  us,  or  we  shall  be  lightly 
esteemed  ;  certain  mouthfuls  of  articulate  wind  will  be  blown 
at  us,  and  this  what  mortal  courage  can  front  ?  Thus,  while 
civil  liberty  is  more  and  more  secured  to  us,  our  moral 


SIGNS  OF  THE  TIMES. 


159 


liberty  is  all  but  last.  Practically  considered,  our  creed  is 
Fatalism ;  and,  free  in  hand  and  foot,  we  are  shackled  in 
heart  and  soul  with  far  straiter  than  feudal  chains.  "Truly 
may  we  say,  with  the  Philosopher,  '  the  deep  meaning  of  the 
Laws  of  Mechanism  lies  heavy  on  us ; '  and  in  the  closet,  in 
the  market-place,  in  the  temple,  by  the  social  hearth,  encum- 
bers the  whole  movements  of  our  mind,  and  over  our  noblest 
faculties  is  spreading  a  nightmare  sleep. 

These  dark  features,  we  are  aware,  belong  more  or  less  to 
other  ages,  as  well  as  to  ours.  This  faith  in  Mechanism,  in 
the  all-importance  of  physical  things,  is  in  every  age  the 
common  refuge  of  Weakness  and  blind  Discontent ;  of  all 
who  believe,  as  many  will  ever  do,  that  man's  true  good  lies 
without  him,  not  within.  We  are  aware  also,  that,  as  ap- 
plied to  ourselves  in  all  their  aggravation,  they  form  but  half 
a  picture  ;  that  in  the  whole  picture  there  are  bright  lights 
as  well  as  gloomy  shadows.  If  we  here  dwell  chiefly  on  the 
latter,  let  us  not  be  blamed  :  it  is  in  general  more  profitable 
to  reckon  up  our  defects  than  to  boast  of  our  attainments. 

Neither,  with  all  these  evils  more  or  less  clearly  before  us, 
have  we  at  any  time  despaired  of  the  fortunes  of  society. 
Despair,  or  even  despondency,  in  that  respect,  appears  to  us, 
in  all  cases,  a  groundless  feeling.  We  have  a  faith  in  the 
imperishable  dignity  of  man  ;  in  the  high  vocation  to  which, 
throughout  this  his  earthly  history,  he  has  been  appointed. 
However  it  may  be  with  individual  nations,  whatever  melan- 
cholic speculators  may  assert,  it  seems  a  well-ascertained  fact, 
that  in  all  times,  reckoning  even  from  those  of  the  Heraclides 
and  Pelasgi,  the  happiness  and  greatness  of  mankind  at  large 
have  been  continually  progressive.  Doubtless  this  age  also 
is  advancing.  Its  very  unrest,  its  ceaseless  activity,  its  dis- 
content contains  matter  of  promise.  Knowledge,  education 
are  opening  the  eyes  of  the  humblest ;  are  increasing  the 
number  of  thinking  minds  without  limit.  This  is  as  it  should 
be  ;  for  not  in  turning  back,  not  in  resisting,  but  only  in  reso^ 


160 


MISCELLANIES. 


lately  struggling  forward,  does  our  life  consist.  Nay,  after 
all,  our  spiritual  maladies  are  but  of  Opinion  ;  we  are  but 
fettered  by  chains  of  our  own  forging,  and  which  ourselves 
also  can  rend  asunder.  This  deep,  paralysed  subjection  to 
physical  objects  comes  not  from  Nature,  but  from  our  own 
unwise  mode  of  viewing  Nature.  Neither  can  we  under- 
stand that  man  wants,  at  this  hour,  any  faculty  of  heart,  soul 
or  body,  that  ever  belonged  to  him.  '  He,  who  has  been 
born,  has  been  a  First  Man ; '  has  had  lying  before  his 
young  eyes,  and  as  yet  unhardened  into  scientific  shapes,  a 
world  as  plastic,  infinite,  divine,  as  lay  before  the  eyes  of 
Adam  himself.  If  Mechanism,  like  some  glass  bell,  encircles 
and  imprisons  us ;  if  the  soul  looks  forth  on  a  fair  heavenly 
counti-)'  which  it  cannot  reach,  and  pines,  and  in  its  scanty 
atmosphere  is  ready  to  perish,  —  yet  the  bell  is  but  of  glass ; 
'  one  bold  stroke  to  break  the  bell  in  pieces,  and  thou  art  de- 
livered ! '  Not  the  invisible  world  is  wanting,  for  it  dwells  in 
man's  soul,  and  this  last  is  still  here.  Are  the  solemn  tem- 
ples, in  which  the  Divinity  was  once  visibly  revealed  among 
us,  crumbling  away  ?  We  can  repair  them,  Ave  can  rebuild 
them.  The  wisdom,  the  heroic  worth  of  our  forefathers, 
which  we  have  lost,  we  can  recover.  That  admiration  of  old 
nobleness,  which  now  so  often  shows  itself  as  a  faint  dilet- 
tanteism,  will  one  day  become  a  generous  emulation,  and  man 
may  again  be  all  that  he  has  been,  and  more  than  he  has 
been.  Nor  are  these  the  mere  daydreams  of  fancy  ;  they 
are  clear  possibilities  ;  nay,  in  this  time  they  are  even  assum- 
ing the  character  of  hopes.  Indications  we  do  see,  in  other 
countries  and  in  our  own,  signs  infinitely  cheering  to  us,  that 
Mechanism  is  not  always  to  be  our  hard  taskmaster,  but  one 
da}'  to  be  our  pliant,  all-ministering  servant  ;  that  a  new  and 
brighter  spiritual  era  is  slowly  evolving  itself  for  all  men. 
But  on  these  things  our  present  course  forbids  us  to  enter. 

Meanwhile,  that  great  outward  changes  are  in  progress, 
can  be  doubtful  to  no  one.  The  time  is  sick  and  out  of  joint. 
Many  things  have  reached  their  height  ;  and  it  is  a  wise 


SIGNS  OF  THE  TIMES. 


161 


adage  that  tells  us,  £  the  darkest  hour  is  nearest  the  dawn.' 
Wherever  we  can  gather  indication  of  the  public  thought, 
whether  from  printed  books,  as  in  France  or  Germany,  or 
from  Carbonari  rebellions  and  other  political  tumultfe,  as  in 
Spain,  Portugal,  Italy  and  Greece,  the  voice  it  utters  is  the 
same.  The  thinking  minds  of  all  nations  call  for  change. 
There  is  a  deep-lying  struggle  in  the  whole  fabric  of  society  ; 
a  boundless  grinding  collision  of  the  New  with  the  Old.  The, 
French  Revolution,  as  is  now  visible  enough,  was  not  the! 
parent  of  this  mighty  movement,  but  its  offspring.  Those 
two  hostile  influences,  which  always  exist  in  human  things, 
and  on  the  constant  intercommunion  of  which  depends 
their  health  and  safety,  had  lain  in  separate  masses^  accu- 
mulating through  generations,  and  France  was  the  scene  of 
their  fiercest  explosion  ;  but  the  final  issue  was  not  unfolded 
in  that  country  :  nay  it  is  not  yet  anywhere  unfolded.  Polit- 
ical freedom  is  hitherto  the  object  of  these  efforts  ;  but  they 
will  not  and  cannot  stop  there.  It  is  towards  a  higher  free- 
dom than  mere  freedom  from  oppression  from  his  fellow- 
mortal,  that  man  dimly  aims.  Of  this  higher,  heavenly  free- 
dom, which  is  '  man's  reasonable  service,'  all  his  noble 
institutions,  his  faithful  endeavours  and  loftiest  attainments, 
are  but  the  body,  and  more  and  more  approximated  emblem. 

On  the  whole,  as  this  wondrous  planet,  Earth,  is  journey- 
ing with  its  fellows  through  infinite  Space,  so  are  the 
wondrous  destinies  embarked  on  it  journeying  through  in- 
finite Time,  under  a  higher  guidance  than  ours.  For  the 
present,  as  our  astronomy  informs  us,  its  path  lies  towards 
Hercules,  the  constellation  of  Physical  Power:  but  that  is 
not  our  most  pressing  concern.  Go  where  it  will,  the  deep 
Heaven  will  be  around  it.  Therein  let  us  have  hope  and 
sure  faith.  To  reform  a  world,  to  reform  a  nation,  no  wise 
man  will  undertake  ;  and  all  but  foolish  men  know,  that  the 
only  solid,  though  a  far  slower  reformation,  is  what  each  be- 
gins and  perfects  on  himself. 


VOL.  II. 


11 


1G2 


MISCELLANIES. 


^JEAN  PAUL  FRJEDRICH  RICHTER  AGAIN.1 
[1830.] 

It  is  some  six  years  since  the  name  'Jean  Paul  Frieclrich 
Richter'  was  first  printed  with  English  types;  and  some  six- 
and-forty  since  it  has  stood  emblazoned  and  illuminated  on 
all  true  literary  Indicators  among  the  Germans  ;  a  fact  which, 
if  we  consider  the  history  of  many  a  Kotzebue  and  Chateau- 
briand, within  that  period,  may  confirm  the  old  doctrine,  that 
the  best  celebrity  does  not  always  spread  the  fastest ;  but 
rather,  quite  contrariwise,  that  as  blown  bladders  are  far. 
more  easily  carried  than  metallic  masses,  though  gold  ones, 
of  equal  bulk,  so  the  Playwright,  Poetaster,  Philosophe,  will 
often  pass  triumphantly  beyond  seas,  while  the  Poet  and  Phi- 
losopher abide  quietly  at  home.  Such  is  the  order  of 
Nature  :  a  Spurzheim  flies  from  Vienna  to  Paris  and  Lon- 
don within  the  year;  a  Kant,  slowly  advancing,  may  perhaps 
reach  us  from  Kbnigsberg  within  the  century :  Newton, 
merely  to  cross  the  narrow  Channel,  required  fifty  years; 
Shakspeare,  again,  three  times  as  many.  It  is  true,  there 
are  examples  of  an  opposite  sort;  now  and  then,  by  some 
rare  chance,  a  Goethe,  a  Cervantes,  will  occur  in  literature, 
and  Kings  may  laugh  over  Don  Quixote  while  it  is  yet  un- 
finished, and  scenes  from  Wcrter  be  painted  on  Chinese  tea- 
cups while  the  author  is  still  a  stripling.  These,  however, 
are  not  the  ride,  hut,  the  exceptions  ;  nay,  rightly  inter- 
preted, the   exceptions  which  confirm  it.     In  general,  that 

1  Fokkign  Review,  No.  0.—  Wahrlieit  am  Jean  Pauls  Leben  (Biog- 
raphy of  Jean  Paul),   lstcs,  2tes,  3tes  BSiK.'chen.   Breslau,  1820,  "27,  '28. 


JEAN  PAUL  FEIEDEICH  RICHTER. 


163 


sudden  tumultuous'  popularity  comes  more  from  partial  de- 
lirium on  both  sides,  than  from  clear  insight ;  and  is  of  evil 
omen  to  all  concerned  with  it.  How  many  loud  Bacchus- 
festivals  of  this  sort  have  we  seen  prove  to  be  pseudo- 
Bacchanalia,  and  end  in  directly  the  inverse  of  Orgies ! 
Drawn  by  his  team  of  lions,  the  jolly  god  advances  as  a 
real  god,  with  all  his  thyrsi,  cymbals,  phallophori  and 
Mamadic  women  ;  the  air,  the  earth  is  giddy  with  their 
clangour,  their  Evohes :  but,  alas,  in  a  little  while,  the  lion- 
team  shows  long  ears,  and  becomes  too  clearly  an  ass-team 
in  lion-skins  ;  the  Mrenads  wheel  round  in  amazement ;  and 
then  the  jolly  god,  dragged  from  his  chariot,  is  trodden  into 
the  kennels  as  a  drunk  mortal. 

That  no  such  apotheosis  was  appointed  for  Richter  in  his 
own  country,  or  is  now  to  be  anticipated  in  any  other,  we 
cannot  but  regard  as  a  natural  and  nowise  unfortunate  circum- 
stance. What  divinity  lies  in  him  requires  a  calmer  worship, 
and  from  quite  another  class  of  worshippers.  Neither,  in 
spite  of  that  forty-years  abeyance,  shall  we  accuse  England 
of  any  uncommon  blindness  towards  him :  nay,  taking  all 
things  into  account,  we  should  rather  consider  his  actual 
footing  among  us  as  evincing  not  only  an  increased  rapidity 
in  literary  intercourse,  but  an  intrinsic  improvement  in  the 
manner  and  objects  of  it.  Our  feeling  of  foreign  excellence, 
we  hope,  must  be  becoming  truer  ;  our  Insular  taste  must  be 
opening  more  and  more  into  a  European  one.  For  Richter 
is  by  no  means  a  man  whose  merits,  like  his  singularities, 
force  themselves  on  the  general  eye  ;  indeed,  without  great 
patience,  and  some  considerable  Catholicism  of  disposition, 
no  reader  is  likely  to  prosper  much  with  him.  He  has  a 
fine,  high,  altogether  unusual  talent;  and  a  manner  of  ex- 
pressing it  perhaps  still  more  unusual.  He  is  a  Humorist 
heartily  and  throughout  ;  not  only  in  low  provinces  of 
thought,  where  this  is  more  common,  but  in  the  loftiest  prov- 
inces, where  it  is  wellnigh  unexampled  ;  and  thus,  in  wild 
sport,  'playing  bowls  with  the  sun  and  moon,'  he  fashions  the 


164 


MISCELLANIES. 


strangest  ideal  world,  which  at  first  glance  looks  no  better 
than  a  chaos.  The  Germans  themselves  find  much  to  bear 
with  in  him  ;  and  for  readers  of  any  other  nation,  he  is  in- 
volved in  almost  boundless  complexity ;  a  mighty  maze, 
indeed,  but  in  which  the  plan,  or  traces  of  a  plan,  are  no- 
where visible.  Far  from  appreciating  and  appropriating  the 
spirit  of  his  writings,  foreigners  find  it  in  the  highest  degree 
difficult  to  seize  their  grammatical  meaning.  Probably  there 
is  not,  in  any  modern  language,  so  intricate  a  writer  ; 
abounding,  without  measure,  in  obscure  allusions,  in  the  most 
twisted  phraseology  ;  perplexed  into  endless  entanglements 
and  dislocations,  parenthesis  within  parenthesis  ;  not  forget- 
ting elisions,  sudden  whirls,  quips,  conceits  and  all  manner 
of  inexplicable  crotchets  :  the  whole  moving  on  in  the  gayest 
manner,  yet  nowise  in  what  seem  military  lines,  but  rather  in 
huge  parti-coloured  mob-masses.  How  foreigners  must  find 
themselves  bested  in  this  case,  our  readers  may  best  judge 
from  the  fact,  that  a  work  with  the  following  title  was  under- 
taken some  twenty  years  ago,  for  the  benefit  of  Richter's 
own  countrymen :  4  K.  Reinhold's  Lexicon  for  Jean  Paul's 
'  Works,  or  explanation  of  all  the  foreign  words  and  unusual 
'  modes  of  speech  which  occur  in  his  writings ;  with  short 
1  notices  of  the  historical  persons  and  facts  therein  alluded  to  ; 
'  and  plain  German  versions  of  the  more  difficult  passages  in 
1  the  context :  —  a  necessary  assistance  for  all  who  would  read 
'  those  works  with  profit  ! '  So  much  for  the  dress  or  vehicle 
of  Richter's  thoughts  :  now  let  it  only  be  remembered  farther, 
that  the  thoughts  themselves  are  often  of  the  most  abstruse 
description,  so  that  not  till  after  laborious  meditation,  can 
much,  either  of  truth  or  of  falsehood,  be  discerned  in  them  ; 
and  we  have  a  man,  from  whom  readers  with  weak  nerves, 
and  a  taste  in  any  degree  sickly,  will  not  fail  to  recoil,  per- 
haps with  a  sentiment  approaching  to  horror.  And  yet,  as 
we  said,  notwithstanding  all  these  drawbacks,  Richter  already 
meets  with  a  certain  recognition  in  England  ;  he  has  his 
readers  and  admirers  ;  various  translations  from  his  works 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RTCHTER.  1  Go 

have  been  published  among  us  ;  criticisms  also,  not  with- 
out clear  discernment,  and  nowise  wanting  in  applause  ;  and 
to  all  this,  so  far  as  we  can  see,  even  the  Un-German  part 
of  the  public  has  listened  with  some  curiosity  and  hope- 
ful anticipation.  From  which  symptoms  we  should  infer  two 
things,  both  very  comfortable  to  us  in  our  present  capacity : 
First,  that  the  old  strait-laced,  microscopic  sect  of  Belles- 
lettres  men,  whose  divinity  was  '  Elegance,'  a  creed  of  French 
growth,  and  more  admirable  for  men-milliners  than  for  critics 
and  philosophers,  must  be  rapidly  declining  in  these  Islands  ; 
and,  secondly,  which  is  a  much  more  personal  consideration, 
that,  in  still  farther  investigating  and  exhibiting  this  wonder- 
ful Jean  Paul,  we  have  attempted  what  will  be,  for  many  of 
our  readers,  no  unwelcome  service. 

Our  inquiry  naturally  divides  itself  into  two  departments, 
the  Biographical  and  the  Critical ;  concerning  both  of  which, 
in  their  order,  we  have  some  observations  to  make ;  and  what, 
in  regard  to  the  latter  department  at  least,  we  reckon  more 
profitable,  some  rather  curious  documents  to  present. 

It  does  not  appear  that  Richter's  life,  externally  considered, 
differed  much  in  general  character  from  other  literary  lives, 
wdiich,  for  most  part,  are  so  barren  of  incident :  the  earlier 
portion  of  it  was  straitened  enough,  but  not  otherwise  dis- 
tinguished ;  the  latter  and  busiest  portion  of  it  was,  in  like 
manner,  altogether  private ;  spent  chiefly  in  provincial  towns, 
and  apart  from  high  scenes  or  persons  ;  its  principal  occur- 
rences the  new  books  he  wrote,  its  whole  course  a  spiritual 
and  silent  one.  He  became  an  author  in  his  nineteenth 
year ;  and  with  a  conscientious  assiduity  adhered  to  that 
employment ;  not  seeking,  indeed  carefully  avoiding,  any  in- 
terruption or  disturbance  therein,  were  it  only  for  a  day  or 
an  hour.  Nevertheless,  in  looking  over  those  Sixty  Volumes 
of  his,  we  feel  as  if  Richter's  history  must  have  another, 
much  deeper  interest  and  worth,  than  outward  incidents 
could  impart  to  it.  For  the  spirit  which  shines  more  or 
less  completely  through  his  writings  is  one  of  perennial  ex- 


166 


MISCELLANIES. 


cellence  ;  rare  in  all  times  and  situations,  and  perhaps  no- 
where and  in  no  time  more  rare  than  in  literary  Europe  at 
this  era.  We  see  in  this  man  a  high,  self-subsistent,  original 
and,  in  many  respects,  even  great  character.  He  shows 
himself  a  man  of  wonderful  gifts,  and  with,  perhaps,  a  still 
happier  combination  and  adjustment  of  these :  in  whom 
Philosophy  and  Poetry  are  not  only  reconciled,  but  blended 
together  into  a  purer  essence,  into  Religion  ;  who,  with  the 
softest,  most  universal  sympathy  for  outward  things,  is  in- 
wardly calm,  impregnable ;  holds  on  his  way  through  all 
temptations  and  afflictions,  so  quietly,  yet  so  inflexibly  ;  the 
true  literary  man  among  a  thousand  false  ones,  the  Apollo 
among  neatherds  ;  in  one  word,  a  man  understanding  the 
nineteenth  century,  and  living  in  the  midst  of  it,  yet  whose 
life  is,  in  some  measure,  a  heroic  and  devout  one.  No  char- 
acter of  this  kind,  we  are  aware,  is  to  be  formed  without 
manifold  and  victorious  struggling  with  the  world;  and  the 
narrative  of  such  struggling,  what  little  of  it  can  be  narrated 
and  interpreted,  will  belong  to  the  highest  species  of  history. 
The  acted  life  of  such  a  man,  it  has  been  said,  '  is  itself  a 
Bible  ; '  it  is  a  '  Gospel  of  Freedom,'  preached  abroad  to  all 
men  ;  whereby,  among  mean  unbelieving  souls,  we  may  know 
that  nobleness  has  not  yet  become  impossible  ;  and,  languish- 
ing amid  boundless  triviality  and  despicability,  still  understand 
that  man's  nature  is  indefeasibly  divine,  and  so  hold  fast  what 
is  the  most  important  of  all  faiths,  the  faith  in  ourselves. 

But  if  the  acted  life  of  a  pius  Vates  is  so  high  a  matter, 
the  written  life,  which,  if  properly  written,  would  be  a  trans- 
lation and  interpretation  thereof,  must  also  have  great  value. 
It  has  been  said  that  no  Poet  is  equal  to  his  Poem,  which 
saying  is  partially  true  ;  but,  in  a  deeper  sense,  it  may  also 
be  asserted,  and  with  still  greater  truth,  that  no  Poem  is 
equal  to  its  Poet.  Now,  it  is  Biography  that  first  gives  us 
both  Poet  and  Poem  ;  by  the  significance  of  the  one  eluci- 
dating and  completing  that  of  the  other.  That  ideal  outline 
of  himself,  which  a  man  unconsciously  shadows  forth  in  his 


JEAN  PAUL  FR1EDEICH  EICHTER. 


167 


writings,  and  which,  rightly  deciphered,  will  be  truer  than 
any  other  representation  of  him,  it  is  the  task  of  the  Biog- 
rapher to  fill-up  into  an  actual  coherent  figure,  and  bring 
home  to  our  experience,  or  at  least  our  clear  undoubting 
admiration,  thereby  to  instruct  and  edify  us  in  many  ways. 
Conducted  on  such  principles,  the  Biography  of  great  men, 
especially  of  great  Poets,  that  is,  of  men  in  the  highest  de- 
gree noble-minded  and  wise,  might  become  one  of  the  most 
dignified  and  valuable  species  of  composition.  As  matters 
stand,  indeed,  there  are  few  Biographies  that  accomplish 
anything  of  this  kind :  the  most  are  mere  Indexes  of  a 
Biography,  which  each  reader  is  to  write  out  for  himself, 
as  he  peruses  them  ;  not  the  living  body,  but  the  dry  bones 
of  a  body,  which  should  have  been  alive.  To  expect  any 
such  Promethean  virtue  in  a  common  Life-writer  were  un- 
reasonable enough.  How  shall  that  unhappy  Biographic 
brotherhood,  instead  of  writing  like  Index-makers  and 
Government-clerks,  suddenly  become  enkindled  with  some 
sparks  of  intellect,  or  even  of  genial  fire  ;  and  not  only 
collecting  dates  and  facts,  but  making  use  of  them,  look 
beyond  the  surface  and  economical  form  of  a  man's  life, 
into  its  substance  and  spirit  ?  The  truth  is,  Biographies  are 
in  a  similar  case  with  Sermons  and  Songs  :  they  have  their 
scientific  rules,  their  ideal  of  perfection  and  of  imperfection, 
as  all  things  have  ;  but  hitherto  their  rules  are  only,  as  it 
were,  unseen  Laws  of  Nature,  not  critical  Acts  of  Parlia- 
ment, and  threaten  us  with  no  immediate  penalty  :  besides, 
unlike  Tragedies  and  Epics,  such  works  may  be  something 
without  being  all :  their  simplicity  of  form,  moreover,  is  apt 
to  seem  easiness  of  execution ;  and  thus,  for  one  artist  in 
those  departments,  we  have  a  thousand  bunglers. 

With  regard  to  Richter,  in  particular,  to  say  that  his 
biographic  treatment  has  been  worse  than  usual,  were  saying 
much  ;  yet  worse  than  we  expected,  it  has  certainly  been. 
Various  '  Lives  of  Jean  Paul,'  anxiously  endeavouring  to 
profit  by  the  public  excitement  while  it  lasted,  and  com- 


* 


168  MISCELLANIES. 

municating  in  a  given  space  almost  a  minimum  of  informa- 
tion, have  been  read  by  us,  within  the  last  four  years,  with 
no  great  disappointment.  We  strove  to  take  thankfully 
what  little  they  had  to  give  ;  and  looked  forward,  in  hope,  to 
that  promised  'Autobiography,'  wherein  all  deficiencies  were 
to  be  supplied.  Several  years  before  his  death,  it  would  seem, 
Richter  had  determined  on  writing  some  account  of  his  own 
life  ;  and  with  his  customary  honesty,  had  set  about  a  thorough 
preparation  for  this  task.  After  revolving  many  plans,  some 
of  them  singular  enough,  he  at  last  determined  on  the  form 
of  composition  ;  and  with  a  half-sportful  allusion  to  Goethe's 
Dichtung  unci  Wahrheit  aus  meinem  Leben,  had  prefixed  to 
his  work  the  title  Wahrheit  aus  meinem  Leben  (Truth  from 
my  Life)  ;  having  relinquished,  as  impracticable,  the  strange 
idea  of  'writing,  parallel  to  it,  a  Dichtung  (Fiction)  also, 
under  cover  of  Nicolaus  Margraf,'  —  a  certain  Apothecary, 
existing  only  as  hero  of  one  of  his  last  Novels  !  In  this 
work,  which  weightier  avocations  had  indeed  retarded  or  sus- 
pended, considerable  progress  was  said  to  have  been  made  ; 
and  on  Richter's  decease,  Herr  Otto,  a  man  of  talents, 
who  had  been  his  intimate  friend  for  half  a  lifetime,  under- 
took the  editing  and  completing  of  it  ;  not  without  sufficient 
proclamation  and  assertion,  which  in  the  mean  while  was 
credible  enough,  that  to  him  only  could  the  post  of  Richter's 
Biographer  belong. 

Three  little  Volumes  of  that  Wahrheit  aus  Jean  Pauls 
Leben,  published  in  the  course  of  as  many  years,  are  at 
length  before  us.  The  First  volume,  which  came  out  in 
1826,  occasioned  some  surprise,  if  not  disappointment;  yet 
still  left  room  for  hope.  It  was  the  commencement  of  a  real 
Autobiography,  and  written  with  much  heartiness  and  even 
dignity  of  manner ;  though  taken  up  under  a  quite  unex- 
pected point  of  view  ;  in  that  spirit  of  genial  humour,  of 
gay  earnestness,  which,  with  all  its  strange  fantastic  accom- 
paniments, often  sat  on  Jean  Paul  so  gracefully,  and  to 
which,  at  any  rate,  no  reader  of  his  works  could  be  a 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RIOHTER. 


169 


stranger.  By  virtue  of  an  autocratic  ukase,  Paul  had  ap- 
pointed himself '  Professor  of  his  own  History,'  and  delivered 
to  the  Universe  three  beautiful  '  Lectures '  on  that  subject ; 
boasting,  justly  enough,  that,  in  his  special  department,  he 
was  better  informed  than  any  other  man  whatever.  He  was 
not  without  his  oratorical  secrets  and  professorial  habits : 
thus,  as  Mr.  Wortley,  in  writing  his  parliamentary  speech 
to  be  read  within  his  hat,  had  marked,  in  various  passages, 
'  Here  cough,'  so  Paul,  with  greater  brevity,  had  an  arbitrary 
hieroglyph  introduced  here  and  there,  among  his  papers,  and 
purporting,  as  he  tells  us,  "  Meine  Herren,  niemand  scharre, 
niemand  gahne,  Gentlemen,  no  scraping,  no  yawning  ! "  —  a 
hieroglyph,  we  must  say,  which  many  public  speakers  might 
stand  more  in  need  of  than  he. 

Unfortunately,  in  the  Second  volume,  no  other  Lectures 
came  to  light,  but  only  a  string  of  disconnected,  indeed  quite 
heterogeneous  Notes,  intended  to  have  been  fashioned  into 
such  ;  the  full  free  stream  of  oratory  dissipated  itself  into 
unsatisfactory  drops.  With  the  Third  volume,  which  is  by 
much  the  longest,  Herr  Otto  appears  more  decidedly  in  his 
own  person,  though  still  rather  with  the  scissors  than  with 
the  pen  ;  and,  behind  a  multitude  of  circumvallations  and 
outposts,  endeavours  to  advance  his  history  a  little ;  the 
Lectures  having  left  it  still  almost  at  the  very  commence- 
ment. His  peculiar  plan,  and  the  too  manifest  purpose  to 
continue  speaking  in  Jean  Paul's  manner,  greatly  obstruct  his 
progress  ;  which,  indeed,  is  so  inconsiderable,  that  at  the  end 
of  this  third  volume,  that  is,  after  some  seven  hundred  small 
octavo  pages,  we  find  the  hero,  as  yet,  scarcely  beyond  his 
twentieth  year,  and  the  history  proper  still  only,  as  it  were, 
beginning.  We  cannot  but  regret  that  Herr  Otto,  whose 
talent  and  good  purpose,  to  say  nothing  of  his  relation  to 
Richter,  demand  regard  from  us,  had  not  adopted  some 
straightforward  method,  and  spoken  out  in  plain  prose,  which 
seems  a  more  natural  dialect  for  him,  what  he  had  to  say  on 
this  matter.    Instead  of  a  multifarious  combination,  tending 


170 


MISCELLANIES. 


so  slowly,  if  at  all,  towards  unity,  he  might,  without  omitting 
those  '  Lectures,'  or  any  '  Note  '  that  had  value,  have  given  us 
a  direct  Narrative,  which,  if  it  had  wanted  the  line  of  Beauty, 
might  have  had  the  still  more  indispensable  line  of  Regularity, 
and  been,  at  all  events,  far  shorter.  Till  Herr  Otto's  work 
is  completed,  we  cannot  speak  positively  ;  but,  in  the  mean 
while,  we  must  say  that  it  wears  an  unprosperous  aspect,  and 
leaves  room  to  fear  that,  after  all,  Richter's  Biography  may 
still  long  continue  a  problem.  As  for  ourselves,  in  this  state 
of  matters,  what  help,  towards  characterising  Jean  Paul's 
practical  Life,  we  can  afford,  is  but  a  few  slight  facts  gleaned 
from  Herr  Otto's  and  other  meaner  works  ;  and  which,  even 
in  our  own  eyes,  are  extremely  insufficient. 

Richter  was  born  at  Wonsiedel  in  Bayreuth,  in  the  year 
1763 ;  and  as  his  birthday  fell  on  the  21st  of  March,  it  was 
sometimes  wittily  said  that  he  and  the  Spring  were  born 
together.  He  himself  mentions  this,  and  with  a  laudable 
intention :  '  this  epigrammatic  fact,'  says  he,  '  that  I  the 
'  Professor  and  the  Spring  came  into  the  world  together,  I 
'have  indeed  brought  out  a  hundred  times  in  conversation, 
'  before  now  ;  but  I  fire  it  off  here  purposely,  like  a  cannon- 
'  salute,  for  the  hundred  and  first  time,  that  so  by  printing  I 
'  may  ever  henceforth  be  unable  to  offer  it  again  as  bon-mot- 
'  bonbon,  when,  through  the  Printer's  Devil,  it  has  already 
'been  presented  to  all  the  world.'  Destiny,  he  seems  to 
think,  made  another  witticism  on  him  ;  the  word  Richter 
being  appellative  as  well  as  proper,  in  the  German  tongue, 
where  it  signifies  Judge.  His  Christian  name,  Jean  Paul, 
which  long  passed  for  some  freak  of  his  own,  and  a  pseu- 
donym, he  seems  to  have  derived  honestly  enough  from 
his  maternal  grandfather,  Johann  Paul  Kuhn,  a  substantial 
cloth-maker  in  Hof ;  only  translating  the  German  Johann 
into  the  French  Jean.  The  Richters,  for  at  least  two  gen- 
erations, had  been  schoolmasters,  or  very  subaltern  church- 
men, distinguished  for  their  poverty  and  their  piety:  the 
grandfather,  it  appears,  is  still  remembered  in  his  little 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDPJCH  RICHTER. 


171 


circle,  as  a  man  of  quite  remarkable  innocence  and  holi- 
ness ;  4  in  Neustadt,'  says  his  descendant,  '  they  will  show 
'  you  a  bench  behind  the  organ,  where  he  knelt  on  Sundays, 
4  and  a  cave  he  had  made  for  himself  in  what  is  called  the 
4  Little  Culm,  where  he  was  wont  to  pray.'  Holding,  and 
laboriously  discharging,  three  school  or  church  offices,  his 
yearly  income  scarcely  amounted  to  fifteen  pounds  :  4  and  at 
4  this  Hunger-fountain,  common  enough  for  Bayreuth  school- 
'  people,  the  man  stood  thirty-five  years  long,  and  cheerfully 
4  drew.'  Preferment  had  been  slow  in  visiting  him :  but  at 
length  4  it  came  to  pass,'  says  Paul,  'just  in  my  birth-year, 
4  that,  on  the  6th  of  August,  probably  through  special  con- 
4  nexions  with  the  Higher  Powers,  he  did  obtain  one  of  the 
4  most  important  places  ;  in  comparison  with  which,  truly, 
4  Rectorate,  and  Town,  and  cave  in  the  Culmberg,  were 
4  well  worth  exchanging  ;  a  place,  namely,  in  the  Neustadt 
4  Churchyard.1  —  His  good  wife  had  been  promoted  thither 
4  twenty  years  before  him.  My  parents  had  taken  me,  an 
'  infant,  along  with  them  to  his  death-bed.  He  was  in  the 
4  act  of  departing,  when  a  clergyman  (as  my  father  has  often 
4  told  me)  said  to  them  :  Now,  let  the  old  Jacob  lay  his  hand 
4  on  the  child,  and  bless  him.  I  was  held  into  the  bed  of 
4  death,  and  he  laid  his  hand  on  my  head.  —  Thou  good  old 
4  grandfather !  Often  have  I  thought  of  thy  hand,  blessing 
4  as  it  grew  cold,  —  when  Fate  led  me  out  of  dark  hours  into 
4  clearer,  —  and  already  I  can  believe  in  thy  blessing,  in 
4  this  material  world,  whose  life,  foundation  and  essence  is 
4  Spirit ! ' 

The  father,  who  at  this  time  occupied  the  humble  post  of 
Tertius  (Under-schoolmaster)  and  Organist  at  Wonsiedel, 
was  shortly  afterwards  appointed  Clergyman  in  the  hamlet 
of  Jodiz  ;  and  thence,  in  the  course  of  years,  transferred  to 

i  Gottesacher  (God's-field),  not  Kirchhof.  the  more  common  term  and 
exactly  corresponding  to  ours,  is  the  word  Richter  uses  here,  —  and 
almost  always  elsewhere,  which  in  his  writings  he  has  often  occasion,  to 
do. 


172 


MISCELLANIES. 


Schwarzenbach  on  the  Saale.  He  too  was  of  a  truly  devout 
disposition,  though  combining  with  it  more  energy  of  charac- 
ter, and  apparently  more  general  talent ;  being  noted  in  his 
neighbourhood  as  a  bold,  zealous  preacher ;  and  still  par- 
tially known  to  the  world,  we  believe,  for  some  meritorious 
compositions  in  Church-music.  In  poverty  he  cannot  be  said 
to  have  altogether  equalled  his  predecessor,  who  through  life 
ate  nothing  but  bread  and  beer ;  yet  poor  enough  he  was ; 
and  no  less  cheerful  than  poor.  The  thriving  burgher's 
daughter,  whom  he  took  to  wife,  had,  as  we  guess,  brought 
no  money  with  her,  but  only  habits  little  advantageous  for  a 
schoolmaster  or  parson  ;  at  all  events,  the  worthy  man,  frugal 
as  his  household  was,  had  continual  difficulties,  and  even  died 
in  debt.  Paul,  who  in  those  days  was  called  Fritz,  narrr.es 
gaily,  how  his  mother  used  to  despatch  him  to  Hof,  her 
native  town,  with  a  provender-bag  strapped  over  his  shoul- 
ders, under  pretext  of  purchasing  at  a  cheaper  rate  there ; 
but  in  reality  to  get  his  groceries  and  dainties  furnished 
gratis  by  his  grandmother.  He  was  wont  to  kiss  his  grand- 
father's hand  behind  the  loom,  and  speak  with  him  ;  while 
the  good  old  lady,  parsimonious  to  all  the  world,  but  lavish 
to  her  own,  privily  filled  his  bag  with  the  good  things  of  this 
life,  and  even  gave  him  almonds  for  himself,  which,  however, 
he  kept  for  a  friend.  One  other  little  trait,  quite  new  in 
ecclesiastical  annals,  we  must  here  communicate.  Paul,  in 
summing  up  the  joys  of  existence  at  Jodiz,  mentions  this 
among  the  number: 

'In  Autumn  evenings  (and  though  the  weather  were  bad)  the 
Father  used  to  go  in  his  night-gown,  with  Paul  and  Adam  into  a 
potato-field  lying  over  the  Saale.  The  one  younker  carried  a  mat- 
tock, the  other  a  hand-basket.  Arrived  on  the  ground,  the  Father 
set  to  digging  new  potatoes,  so  many  as  were  wanted  for  supper ; 
Paul  gathered  them  from  the  bed  into  the  basket,  whilst  Adam, 
clambering  in  the  hazel  thickets,  looked  out  for  the  best  nuts.  After 
a  time,  Adam  had  to  come  down  from  his  boughs  into  the  bed,  and 
Paid  in  his  turn  ascended.  And  thus,  with  potatoes  and  nuts,  they 
returned  contentedly  home  ;  and  the  pleasure  of  having  run  abroad, 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


173 


some  mile  in  space,  Some  hour  in  time,  and  then  of  celebrating  the 
harvest-home,  by  candlelight,  when  they  came  back,  —  let  every  one 
paint  to  himself  as  brilliantly  as  the  receiver  thereof.' 

To  such  persons  as  argue  that  the  respectability  of  the 
cloth  depends  on  its  price  at  the  clothier's,  it  must  appear 
surprising  that  a  Protestant  clergyman,  who  not  only  was  in 
no  case  to  keep  fox-hounds,  but  even  saw  it  convenient  to 
dig  his  own  potatoes,  should  not  have  fallen  under  universal 
odium,  and  felt  his  usefulness  very  considerably  diminished. 
Nothing  of  this  kind,  however,  becomes  visible  in  the  history 
of  the  Jodiz  Parson  :  we  find  him  a  man  powerful  in  his 
vocation  ;  loved  and  venerated  by  his  flock ;  nay,  associat- 
ing at  will,  and  ever  as  an  honoured  guest,  with  the  gentry 
of  Voigtland,  not  indeed  in  the  character  of  a  gentleman,  yet 
in  that  of  priest,  which  he  reckoned  far  higher.  Like  an 
old  Lutheran,  says  his  son,  he  believed  in  the  great,  as  he 
did  in  ghosts ;  but  without  any  shade  of  fear.  The  truth  is, 
the  man  had  a  cheerful,  pure,  religious  heart ;  was  diligent 
in  business,  and  fervent  in  spirit :  and,  in  all  the  relations  of 
his  life,  found  this  wellnigh  sufficient  for  him. 

To  our  Professor,  as  to  Poets  in  general,  the  recollections 
of  childhood  had  always  something  of  an  ideal,  almost  celes- 
tial character.  Often,  in  his  fictions,  he  describes  such  scenes 
with  a  fond  minuteness  ;  nor  is  poverty  any  deadly,  or  even 
unwelcome  ingredient  in  them.  On  the  whole,  it  is  not  by 
money,  or  money's  worth,  that  man  lives  and  has  his  being. 
Is  not  God's  Universe  within  our  head,  whether  there  be  a 
torn  skull-cap  or  a  king's  diadem  without  ?  Let  no  one 
imagine  that  Paul's  young  years  were  unhappy ;  still  less 
that  he  looks  back  on  them  in  a  lachrymose,  sentimental 
manner,  with  the  smallest  symptom  either  of  boasting  or 
whining.  Poverty  of  a  far  sterner  sort  than  this  would 
have  been  a  light  matter  to  him  ;  for  a  kind  mother,  Nature 
herself,  had  already  provided  against  it ;  and,  like  the  mother 
of  Achilles,  rendered  him  invulnerable  to  outward  things. 
There  was  a  bold,  deep,  joyful  spirit  looking  through  thoso 


174 


MISCELLANIES. 


young  eyes  ;  and  to  such  a  spirit  the  world  has  nothing  poor, 
but  all  is  rich,  and  full  of  loveliness  and  wonder.  That  our 
readers  may  glance  with  us  into  this  foreign  Parsonage,  we 
shall  translate  some  paragraphs  from  Paul's  second  Lecture, 
and  thereby  furnish,  at  the  same  time,  a  specimen  of  his  pro- 
fessorial style  and  temper : 

'  To  represent  the  Jodiz  life  of  our  Hans  Paul,  —  for  by  this  name 
we  shall  for  a  time  distinguish  him,  yet  ever  changing  it  with  others, 
—  our  best  course,  I  believe,  will  be  to  conduct  him  through  a  whole 
Idyl-year ;  dividing  the  normal  year  into  four  seasons,  as  so  many 
quarterly  Idyls  ;  four  Idyls  exhaust  his  happiness. 

'  Tor  the  rest,  let  no  one  marvel  at  finding  an  Idyl-kingdom  and 
pastoral-world  in  a  little  hamlet  and  parsonage.  In  the  smallest  bed 
you  can  raise  a  tulip-tree,  which  shall  extend  its  flowery  boughs  over 
all  the  garden ;  and  the  life-breath  of  joy  can  be  inhaled  as  well 
through  a  window,  as  in  the  open  wood  and  sky.  Nay,  is  not 
Man's  Spirit  (with  all  its  infinite  celestial- spaces)  walled-in  within 
a  six-feet  Body,  with  integuments,  and  Malpighian  mucuses,  and 
capillary  tubes  ;  and  has  only  five  strait  world-windows,  of  Senses, 
to  open  for  the  boundless,  round-eyed,  round-sunned  All;  —  and  yet 
it  discerns  and  reproduces  an  All ! 

'  Scarcely  do  I  know  with  which  of  the  four  quarterly  Idyls  to 
begin ;  for  each  is  a  little  heavenly  forecourt  to  the  next :  however, 
the  climax  of  joys,  if  we  start  with  Winter  and  January,  will  per- 
haps be  most  apparent.  In  the  cold,  our  Father  had  commonly,  like 
an  Alpine  herdsman,  come  down  from  the  upper  altitude  of  his 
study  ;  and,  to  the  joy  of  the  children,  was  dwelling  on  the  plain  of 
the  general  family-room.  In  the  morning,  he  sat  by  a  window,  com- 
mitting his  Sunday's  sermon  to  memory  ;  and  the  three  sons,  Fritz 
(who  1  myself  am),  and  Adam,  and  Gottlieb  carried,  by  turns,  the 
full  coffee-cup  to  him,  and  still  more  gladly  carried  back  the  empty 
one,  because  the  carrier  was  then  entitled  to  pick  the  unmelted  re- 
mains of  the  sugar-candy  (taken  against  cough)  from  the  bottom 
thereof.  Out  of  doors,  truly,  the  sky  covered  all  things  with  silence  ; 
the  brook  witli  ice,  the  village  with  snow  :  but  in  our  room  there  was 
life  ;  under  the  stove  a  pigeon-establishment ;  on  the  windows  finch- 
cages  ;  on  the  floor  the  invincible  bull  brach,  our  Bonne,  the  night- 
guardian  of  the  court-yard  ;  and  a  poodle,  and  the  pretty  Scharmantel 
(Poll),  a  present  from  the  Lady  von  Plotho ;  —  and  close  by,  the 
kitchen,  with  two  maids  ;  and  farther  off,  against  the  other  end  of 
the  house,  our  stable,  with  all  sorts  of  bovine,  swinish  and  feathered 
cattle,  and  their  noises  :  the  threshers,  witli  their  flails,  also  at  work 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


175 


within  the  court-yard,  I  might  reckon  as  another  item.  In  thia 
way,  with  nothing  but  society  on  all  hands,  the  whole  male  portion 
of  the  household  easily  spent  their  forenoon  in  tasks  of  memory,  not 
far  from  the  female  portion,  as  busily  employed  in  cooking. 

'Holidays  occur  in  every  occupation;  thus  I  too  had  my  airing 
holidays,  —  analogous  to  watering  holidays,  —  so  that  I  could  travel 
out  in  the  snow  of  the  court-yard,  and  to  the  barn  with  its  threshing. 
Nay,  was  there  a  delicate  embassy  to  be  transacted  in  the  village,  — 
for  example,  to  the  schoolmaster,  to  the  tailor,  —  I  was  sure  to  be 
despatched  thither  in  the  middle  of  my  lessons ;  and  thus  I  still  got 
forth  into  the  open  air  and  the  cold,  and  measured  myself  with  the 
new  snow.  At  noon,  before  our  own  dinner,  we  children  might  also, 
in  the  kitchen,  have  the  hungry  satisfaction  to  see  the  threshers  fall- 
to  and  consume  their  victuals. 

'  The  afternoon,  again,  was  still  more  important,  and  richer  in 
joys.  Winter  shortened  and  sweetened  our  lessons.  In  the  long 
dusk,  our  Father  walked  to  and  fro  ;  and  the  children,  according  to 
ability,  trotted  under  his  night-gown,  holding  by  his  hands.  At 
sound  of  the  Vesper-bell,  we  placed  ourselves  in  a  circle,  and  in 
concert  devotionally  chaunted  the  hymn,  Die  finstre  Nacht  bricht 
stark  herein  (The  gloomy  Night  is  gathering  round).  Only  in  vil- 
lages, not  in  towns,  where  probably  there  is  more  night  than  day 
labour,  have  the  evening  chimes  a  meaning  and  beauty,  and  are  the 
swan-song  of  the  day  ;  the  evening-bell  is  as  it  were  the  muffle  of  the 
over-loud  heart,  and,  like  a  ranee  des  vaches  of  the  plains,  calls  men 
from  their  running  and  toiling,  into  the  land  of  silence  and  dreams. 
After  a  pleasant  watching  about  the  kitchen-door  for  the  moonrise  of 
candlelight,  we  saw  our  wide  room  at  once  illuminated  and  barri- 
oaded ;  to  wit,  the  window-shutters  were  closed  and  bolted  ;  and 
behind  these  window  bastions  and  breast-works  the  child  felt  himself 
snugly  nestled,  and  well  secured  against  Knecht  Ruprecht,1  who  on 
the  outside  could  not  get  in,  but  only  in  vain  keep  growling  and 
humming. 

'  About  this  period  too  it  was  that  we  children  might  undress,  and 
in  long  train-shirts  skip  up  and  down.  Idyllic  joys  of  various  sorts 
alternated  :  our  Father  either  had  his  quarto  Bible,  interleaved  with 
blank  folio  sheets,  before  him,  and  was  marking,  at  each  verse,  the 
book  wherein  he  had  read  anything  concerning  it ;  —  or  more  com- 
monly he  had  his  ruled  music-paper  ;  and,  undisturbed  by  this  rack- 
eting of  children,  was  composing  whole  concerts  of  church-music, 
with  all  their  divisions ;  constructing  his  internal  melody  without  any 
help  of  external  tones  (as  Reichard  too  advises),  or  rather  in  spite 


1  The  Rawhead  (with  bloody  bones)  of  Germany. 


176 


MISCELLANIES. 


of  all  external  raistones.  In  both  cases,  in  the  last  with  the  more 
pleasure,  I  looked  on  as  he  wrote ;  and  rejoiced  specially,  when,  by 
pauses  of  various  instruments,  whole  pages  were  at  once  filled  up. 
The  children  all  sat  sporting  on  that  long  writing  and  eating  table,  or 
even  under  it.  *  *  * 

'  Then,  at  length,  how  did  the  winter  evening,  once  a  week,  mount 
in  worth,  when  the  old  errand-woman,  coated  in  snow,  with  her  fruit, 
flesh  and  general-ware  basket,  entered  the  kitchen  from  Hot';  and  we 
all,  in  this  case,  had  the  distant  town  in  miniature  before  our  eyes, 
nay  before  our  noses,  for  there  were  pastry-cakes  in  it ! ' 

Thus,  in  dull  winter  imprisonment,  among  all  manner  of 
bovine,  swinish  and  feathered  cattle,  with  their  noises,  may 
Idyllic  joys  be  found,  if  there  is  an  eye  to  see  them,  and  a 
heart  to  taste  them.  Truly  happiness  is  cheap,  did  we  apply 
to  the  right  merchant  for  it.  Paul  warns  us  elsewhere  not 
to  believe,  for  these  Idyls,  that  there  were  no  sour  days,  no 
eludings  and  the  like,  at  Jodiz :  yet,  on  the  whole,  he  had 
good  reason  to  rejoice  in  his  parents.  They  loved  him  well ; 
his  Father,  he  says,  would  '  shed  tears '  over  any  mark  of 
quickness  or  talent  in  little  Fritz :  they  were  virtuous  also, 
and  devout,  which,  after  all,  is  better  than  being  rich.  '  Ever 
'  and  anon,'  says  he,  '  I  was  hearing  some  narrative  from  my 
'  Father,  how  he  and  other  clergymen  had  taken  parts  of 
'  their  dress  and  given  them  to  the  poor ;  he  related  these 
'  things  with  joy,  not  as  an  admonition,  but  merely  as  a 
'  necessary  occurrence.  O  God !  I  thank  thee  for  my 
'  Father  ! ' 

Richter's  education  was  not  of  a  more  sumptuous  sort  than 
his  board  and  lodging.  Some  disagreement  with  the  School- 
master at  Jodiz  had  induced  the  Parson  to  take  his  sons  from 
school,  and  determine  to  teach  them  himself.  This  deter- 
mination he  executed  faithfully  indeed,  yet  in  the  most  lim- 
ited style  ;  his  method  being  no  Pestalozzian  one,  but  simply 
the  old  scheme  of  task-work  and  force-work,  operating  on  a 
Latin  grammar  and  a  Latin  vocabulary  :  and  the  two  boys 
sat  all  day,  and  all  year,  at  home,  without  other  preceptorial 
nourishment  than  getting  by  heart  long  lists  of  words.  Fritz 


JEAN  PAUL  FEIEDEICH  EICHTEE. 


177 


learned  honestly  rfevertheless,  and  in  spite  of  his  brother 
Adam's  bad  example.  For  the  rest,  he  was  totally  destitute 
of  books,  except  such  of  his  Father's  theological  ones  as  he 
could  come  at  by  stealth :  these,  for  want  of  better,  he  eager- 
ly devoured  ;  understanding,  as  he  says,  nothing  whatever  of 
their  contents.  With  no  less  impetuosity,  and  no  less  profit, 
he  perused  the  antiquated  sets  of  Newspapers,  which  a  kind 
patroness,  the  Lady  von  Plotho,  already  mentioned,  was  in 
the  habit  of  furnishing  to  his  Father,  not  in  separate  sheets, 
but  in  sheaves  monthly.  This  was  the  extent  of  his  reading. 
Jodiz,  too,  was  the  most  sequestered  of  all  hamlets  ;  had 
neither  natural  nor  artificial  beauty ;  no  memorable  thing 
could  be  seen  there  in  a  lifetime.  Nevertheless,  under  an 
immeasurable  Sky,  and  in  a  quite  wondrous  World  it  did 
stand  ;  and  glimpses  into  the  infinite  spaces  of  the  Universe, 
and  even  into  the  infinite  spaces  of  Man's  Soul,  could  be  had 
there  as  well  as  elsewhere.  Fritz  had  his  own  thoughts,  in 
spite  of  schoolmasters :  a  little  heavenly  seed  of  Knowledge, 
nay  of  Wisdom,  had  been  laid  in  him,  and  with  no  gardener 
but  Nature  herself,  it  was  silently  growing.  To  some  of  our 
readers,  the  following  circumstance  may  seem  unparalleled, 
if  not  unintelligible  ;  to  others  nowise  so  : 

'  In  the  future  Literary  History  of  our  hero,  it  will  become  doubt- 
ful whether  he  was  not  born  more  for  Philosophy  than  for  Poetry. 
In  earliest  times,  the  word  Weltweisheit  (Philosophy,  World-wisdom), 
—  yet  also  another  word,  Morgenland  (East,  Morning-land), — was  to 
me  an  open  Heaven's-gate,  through  which  I  looked-in  over  long,  long 
gardens  of  joy.  —  Never  shall  I  forget  that  inward  occurrence,  till 
now  narrated  to  no  mortal,  wherein  I  witnessed  the  birth  of  my  Self- 
consciousness,  of  which  I  can  still  give  the  place  and  time.  One 
forenoon,  I  was  standing,  a  very  young  child,  in  the  outer  door,  and 
looking  leftward  at  the  stack  of  the  fuel- wood,  —  when,  all  at  once, 
the  internal  vision,  "I  arn  a  Me  (ich  bin  ein  Ich),"  came  like  a  flash 
from  heaven  before  me,  and  in  gleaming  light  ever  afterwards  con- 
tinued :  then  had  my  Me,  for  the  first  time,  seen  itself,  and  forever. 
Deceptions  of  memory  are  scarcely  conceivable  here ;  for,  in  regard 
to  an  event  occurring  altogether  in  the  veiled  Holy-of-Holies  of  man, 
and  whose  novelty  alone  has  given  permanence  to  such  every -day 

VOL.  II.  12 


178 


MISCELLANIES. 


recollections  accompanying  it,  no  posterior  description  from  another 
party  would  have  mingled  itself  with  accompanying  circumstances 
at  all.' 

It  was  in  his  thirteenth  year  that  the  family  removed  to 
that  better  church-living  at  Schwarzenbach ;  with  which 
change,  so  far  as  school-education  was  concerned,  prospects 
considerably  brightened  for  him.  The  public  Teacher  there 
was  no  deep  scholar  or  thinker,  yet  a  lively,  genial  man,  and 
warmly  interested  in  his  pupils ;  among  whom  he  soon 
learned  to  distinguish  Fritz,  as  a  boy  of  altogether  superior 
gifts.  What  was  of  still  more  importance,  Fritz  now  got 
access  to  books ;  entered  into  a  course  of  highly  miscellane- 
ous, self-selected  reading ;  and  what  with  Romances,  what 
with  Belles-Lettres  works,  and  Hutchesonian  Philosophy, 
and  controversial  Divinity,  saw  an  astonishing  scene  opening 
round  him  on  all  hands.  His  Latin  and  Greek  were  now 
better  taught ;  he  even  began  learning  Hebrew.  Two  cler- 
gymen of  the  neighbourhood  took  pleasure  in  his  company, 
young  as  he  was ;  and  were  of  great  service  now  and  after- 
wards :  it  was  under  their  auspices  that  he  commenced  com- 
position, and  also  speculating  on  Theology,  wherein  he  '  in- 
clined strongly  to  the  heterodox  side.' 

In  the  '  family-room,'  however,  things  were  not  nearly  so 
flourishing.  The  Professor's  three  Lectures  terminate  before 
this  date ;  but  we  gather  from  his  Notes  that  surly  clouds 
hung  over  Schwarzenbach,  that  '  his  evil  days  began  there.' 
The  Father  was  engaged  in  more  complex  duties  than  for- 
merly, went  often  from  home,  was  encumbered  with  debt, 
and  lost  his  former  cheerfulness  of  humour.  For  his  sons 
he  saw  no  outlet  except  the  hereditary  craft  of  School-keep- 
ing ;  and  let  the  matter  rest  there,  taking  little  farther  charge 
of  them.  In  some  three  years,  the  poor  man,  worn  down 
with  manifold  anxieties,  departed  this  life  ;  leaving  his  pecu- 
niary affairs,  which  he  had  long  calculated  on  rectifying  by 
the  better  income  of  Schwarzenbach,  sadly  deranged. 

Meanwhile,  Friedrich  had  been  sent  to  the  Ilof  Gymna- 


JEAN  PAUL  FEIEDPJCH  EICHTER. 


179 


sium  (Town-school),  where,  notwithstanding  this  event,  he 
continued  some  time  ;  two  years  in  all ;  apparently  the  most 
profitable  period  of  his  whole  tuition ;  indeed,  the  only  period 
when,  properly  speaking,  he  had  any  tutor  but  himself. 
The  good  old  cloth-making  grandfather  and  grandmother 
took  charge  of  him,  under  their  roof ;  and  he  had  a  body  of 
teachers,  all  notable  in  their  way.  Herr  Otto  represents  him 
as  a  fine,  trustful,  kindly  yet  resolute  youth,  who  went  through 
his  persecutions,  preferments,  studies,  friendships  and  other 
school-destinies  in  a  highly  creditable  manner ;  and  demon- 
strates this,  at  great  length,  by  various  details  of  facts,  far 
too  minute  for  insertion  here.  As  a  trait  of  Paul's  intel- 
lectual habitudes,  it  may  be  mentioned  that,  at  this  time,  he 
scarcely  made  any  progress  in  History  or  Geography,  much 
as  he  profited  in  all  other  branches  ;  nor  was  the  dull  teacher 
entirely  to  blame,  but  also  the  indisposed  pupil :  indeed,  it 
was  not  till  long  afterwards,  that  he  overcame  or  suppressed 
his  contempt  for  those  studies,  and  with  an  effort  of  his  own 
acquired  some  skill  in  them.1  The  like  we  have  heard  of 
other  Poets  and  Philosophers,  especially  when  their  teachers 
chanced  to  be  prosaists  and  unphilosophical.  Richter  boasts 
that  he  was  never  punished  at  school ;  yet  between  him  and 
the  Historico-geographical  Conrector  (Second  Master)  no 
good  understanding  could  subsist.  On  one  tragi-comical 
occasion,  of  another  sort,  they  came  into  still  more  decided 
collision.  The  zealous  Conrector,  a  most  solid  painstaking 
man,  desirous  to  render  his  Gymnasium  as  like  a  University 
as  possible,  had  imagined  that  a  series  of  '  Disputations,' 
some  foreshadow  of  those  held  at  College,  might  be  a  useful, 

i '  All  History,'  thus  he  writes  in  his  thirty-second  year,  'in  so  far  as  it 
'  is  an  affair  of  memory,  can  only  be  reckoned  a  sapless  heartless  thistle 
'for  pedantic  chaffinches;  —  but,  on  the  other  hand,  like  Nature,  it  has 
'  highest  value,  in  as  far  as  we,  by  means  of  it,  as  by  means  of  Nature, 
'  can  divine  and  read  the  Infinite  Spirit,  who,  with  Nature  and  History,  as 
'  with  letters,  legibly  writes  to  us.  He  who  finds  a  God  in  the  physical 
'  world,  will  also  find  one  in  the  moral,  which  is  History.  Nature  forces  on 
'  our  heart  a  Creator;  History  a  Providence.' 


180 


MISCELLANIES. 


as  certainly  enough  it  would  be  an  ornamental  thing.  By 
ill-luck,  the  worthy  President  had  selected  some  church- 
article  for  the  theme  of  such  a  Disputation :  one  boy  was  to 
defend,  and  it  fell  to  Paul's  lot  to  impugn  the  dogma  ;  a  task 
which,  as  hinted  above,  he  was  very  specially  qualified  to 
undertake.  Now,  honest  Paul  knew  nothing  of  the  limits 
of  this  game  ;  never  dreamt  but  he  might  argue  with  his 
whole  strength,  to  whatever  results  it  might  lead.  In  a  very 
few  rounds,  accordingly,  his  antagonist  was  borne  out  of  the 
ring,  as  good  as  lifeless ;  and  the  Conrector  himself,  seeing  the 
danger,  had,  as  it  were,  to  descend  from  his  presiding  chair, 
and  clap  the  gauntlets  on  his  own  more  experienced  hands. 
But  Paul,  nothing  daunted,  gave  him  also  a  Rowland  for  an 
Oliver  ;  nay,  as  it  became  more  and  more  manifest  to  all 
eyes,  was  fast  reducing  him  also  to  the  frightfullest  extremity. 
The  Conrector's  tongue  threatened  cleaving  to  the  roof  of  his 
mouth  ;  for  his  brain  was  at  a  stand,  or  whirling  in  eddies  ; 
only  his  gall  was  in  active  play.  Nothing  remained  for  him 
but  to  close  the  debate  by  a  "  Silence,  Sirrah  !  "  —  and  leave 
the  room,  with  a  face  (like  that  of  the  much  more  famous 
Subrector  Hans  von  Ftichslein  1  )  'of  a  mingled  colour,  like 
'  red  bole,  green  chalk,  tinsel-yellow,  and  vomissement  de  la 
'  reine.' 

With  his  studies  in  the  Leipzig  University,  whither  he 
proceeded  in  1781,  begins  a  far  more  important  era  for  Paul  ; 
properly,  the  era  of  his  manhood,  and  first  entire  dependence 
on  himself.  In  regard  to  literary  or  scientific  culture,  it  is 
not  clear  that  he  derived  much  furtherance  from  Leipzig ; 
much  more,  at  least,  than  the  mere  neighbourhood  of  libraries 
and  fellow-learners  might  anywhere  else  have  afforded  him. 
Certain  professorial  courses  he  did  attend,  and  with  diligence; 
but  too  much  in  the  character  of  critic,  as  well  as  of  pupil : 
he  was  in  the  habit  of  'measuring  minds'  with  men  so  much 
older  and  more  honourable  than  he  ;  and  erelong  his  respect 
for  many  of  them  had  not  a  little  abated.  What  his  original 
1  See  Quintus  Fixlein,  c.  7. 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIED  RICH  RICHTER. 


181 


plan  of  studies  was,  or  whether  he  had  any  fixed  plan,  we  do 
not  learn ;  at  Hof,  without  election  or  rejection  on  his  own 
part,  he  had  been  trained  with  some  view  to  Theology  ;  but 
this  and  every  other  professional  view  soon  faded  away  in 
Leipzig,  owing  to  a  variety  of  causes ;  and  Richter,  now  still 
more  decidedly  a  self-teacher,  broke  loose  from  all  corporate 
guilds  whatsoever,  and  in  intellectual  culture,  as  in  other 
respects,  endeavoured  to  seek  out  a  basis  of  his  own.  He 
read  multitudes  of  books,  and  wrote  down  whole  volumes  of 
excerpts,  and  private  speculations  ;  labouring  in  all  directions 
with  insatiable  eagerness ;  but  from  the  University  he  de- 
rived little  guidance,  and  soon  came  to  expect  little.  Ernesti, 
the  only  truly  eminent  man  of  the  place,  had  died  shortly 
after  Paul's  arrival  there. 

Nay,  it  was  necessity  as  well  as  choice  that  detached  him 
from  professions  ;  he  had  not  the  means  to  enter  any.  Quite 
another  and  far  more  pressing  set  of  cares  lay  round  him ; 
not  how  he  could  live  easily  in  future  years,  Jbut  how  he 
could  live  at  all  in  the  present,  was  the  grand  question  with 
him.  Whatever  it  might  be  in  regard  to  intellectual  matters, 
certainly,  in  regard  to  moral  matters,  Leipzig  was  his  true 
seminary,  where,  with  many  stripes,  Experience  taught  him 
the  wisest  lessons.  It  was  here  that  he  first  saw  Poverty,  not 
in  the  shape  of  Parsimony,  but  in  the  far  sterner  one  of 
actual  Want ;  and,  unseen  and  single-handed,  wrestling  with 
Fortune  for  life  or  death,  first  proved  what  a  rugged,  deep- 
rooted,  indomitable  strength,  under  such  genial  softness,  dwelt 
in  him  ;  and  from  a  buoyant  cloud-capt  Youth,  perfected  him- 
self into  a  clear,  free,  benignant  and  lofty-minded  Man. 

Meanwhile  the  steps  towards  such  a  consummation  were 
painful  enough.  His  old  Schoolmaster  at  Schwarzenbach, 
himself  a  Leipziger,  had  been  wont  to  assure  him  that  he 
might  live  for  nothing  in  Leipzig,  so  easily  were  '  free-tables,' 
;  siipendiaj  private  teaching  and  the  like,  to  be  procured 
there,  by  youths  of  merit,  That  Richter  was  of  this  latter 
species,  the  Rector  of  the  Hof  Gymnasium  bore  honourable 


182 


MISCELLANIES. 


witness ;  inviting  the  Leipzig  dignitaries,  in  his  Testimonium, 
to  try  the  candidate  themselves ;  and  even  introducing  him 
in  person  (for  the  two  had  travelled  together)  to  various 
Influential  men:  but  all  these  things  availed  him  nothing. 
The  Professors  he  found  beleaguered  by  a  crowd  of  needy 
sycophants,  diligent  in  season  and  out  of  season,  whose  whole 
tactics  were  too  loathsome  to  him  ;  on  all  hands,  he  heard 
the  sad  saying:  Lipsia  vult  expectari,  Leipzig  proferments 
must  be  waited  for.  Now,  waiting  was  of  all  things  the 
most  inconvenient  for  poor  Richter,  In  his  pocket  he  had 
little ;  friends,  except  one  fellow-student,  he  had  none ;  and 
at  home  the  finance-department  had  fallen  into  a  state  of 
total  perplexity,  fast  verging  towards  final  ruin.  The  wor- 
thy old  Cloth-manufacturer  was  now  dead  ;  his  Wife  soon 
followed  him  ;  and  the  Widow  Richter,  her  favourite  daugh- 
ter, who  had  removed  to  Hof,  though  against  the  advice  of  all 
friends,  that  she  might  be  near  her,  now  stood  alone  there, 
with  a  young  family,  and  in  the  most  forlorn  situation.  She 
was  appointed  chief  heir,  indeed  ;  but  former  benefactions 
had  left  far  less  to  inherit  than  had  been  expected ;  nay,  the 
other  relatives  contested  the  whole  arrangement,  and  she 
had  to  waste  her  remaining  substance  in  lawsuits,  scarcely 
realising  from  it,  in  the  shape  of  borrowed  pittances  and  by 
forced  sales,  enough  to  supply  her  with  daily  bread.  Nor 
was  it  poverty  alone  that  she  had  to  suffer,  but  contumely 
no  less  ;  the  Hof  public  openly  finding  her  guilty  of  Un- 
thrift,  and,  instead  of  assistance,  repeating  to  her  dispraise, 
over  their  coffee,  the  old  proverb,  '  Hard  got,  soon  gone  ; ' 
for  all  which  evils  she  had  no  remedy,  but  loud  complain- 
ing to  Heaven  and  Earth.  The  good  woman,  with  the 
most  honest  dispositions,  seems  in  fact  to  have  had  but  a 
small  share  of  wisdom  ;  far  too  small  for  her  present  try- 
ing situation.  Herr  Otto  says  that  Richter's  portraiture  of 
Lenette,  in  the  Blumen-Frucht-und  Dornen-Stiicke  (Flower, 
Fruit  and  Thorn  Pieces)  contains  many  features  of  his 
mother :  Lenette  is  of  '  an  upright,  but  common  and  Km- 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


183 


ited  nature  ; '  assiduous,  even  to  excess,  in  sweeping  and 
scouring ;  true-hearted,  religious  in  her  way,  yet  full  of 
discontents,  suspicion  and  headstrong  whims  ;  a  spouse  for- 
ever plagued  and  plaguing ;  as  the  brave  Stanislaus  Sie- 
benkiis,  that  true  Diogenes  of  impoverished  Poors'- Advocates, 
often  felt,  to  his  cost,  beside  her.  Widow  Richter's  family, 
as  well  as  her  fortune,  was  under  bad  government,  and  sink- 
ing into  lower  and  lower  degradation  :  Adam,  the  brother, 
mentioned  above,  as  Paul's  yokefellow  in  Latin  and  potato- 
digging,  had  now  fallen  away  even  from  the  humble  preten- 
sion of  being  a  Schoolmaster,  or  indeed  of  being  anything ; 
for,  after  various  acts  of  vagrancy,  he  had  enlisted  in  a 
marching  regiment ;  with  which,  or  in  other  devious  courses, 
he  marched  on,  and  only  the  grand  billet-master,  Death,  found 
him  fixed  quarters.  The  Richter  establishment  had  parted 
from  its  old  moorings,  and  was  now,  with  wind  and  tide, 
fast  drifting  towards  fatal  whirlpools. 

In  this  state  of  matters,  the  scarcity  of  Leipzig  could  no- 
wise be  supplied  from  the  fulness  of  Hof ;  but  rather  the 
two  households  stood  like  concave  mirrors  reflecting  one 
another's  keen  hunger  into  a  still  keener  for  both.  What 
outlook  was  there  for  the  poor  Philosopher  of  nineteen  ? 
Even  his  meagre  '  bread  and  milk '  could  not  be  had  for 
nothing  ;  it  became  a  serious  consideration  for  him  that  the 
shoemaker,  who  was  to  sole  his  boots,  '  did  not  trust.'  Far 
from  affording  him  any  sufficient  moneys,  his  straitened 
mother  would  willingly  have  made  him  borrow  for  her  own 
wants  ;  and  was  incessantly  persuading  him  to  get  places  for 
his  brothers.  Richter  felt  too,  that  except  himself,  desolate, 
helpless  as  he  was,  those  brothers,  that  old  mother,  had  no 
stay  on  earth.  There  are  men  with  whom  it  is  as  with 
Schiller's  Friedland  :  '  Night  must  it  be  ere  Friedland's  star 
will  beam.'  On  this  forsaken  youth  Foi'tune  seemed  to  have 
let  loose  her  bandogs,  and  hungry  Ruin  had  him  in  the 
wind  ;  without  was  no  help,  no  counsel :  but  there  lay  a 
giant  force  within ;  and  so  from  the  depths  of  that  sorrow 


184 


MISCELLANIES. 


and  abasement,  his  better  soul  rose  purified  and  invincible, 
like  Hercules  from  his  long  Labours.  A  high,  cheerful 
Stoicism  grew  up  in  the  man.  Poverty,  Pain  and  all 
Evil,  he  learned  to  regard,  not  as  what  they  seemed,  but 
as  what  they  were  ;  he  learned  to  despise  them,  nay  in  kind 
mockery  to  sport  with  them,  as  with  bright-spotted  wild- 
beasts  which  he  had  tamed  and  harnessed.  '  What  is  Pov- 
'  erty,'  said  he  ;  '  who  is  the  man  that  whines  under  it  ?  The 
'pain  is  but  as  that  of  piercing  the  ears  is  to  a  maiden,  and 
'  you  hang  jewels  in  the  wound.'  Dark  thoughts  he  had, 
but  they  settled  into  no  abiding  gloom  :  '  sometimes,'  says 
Otto,  '  he  would  wave  his  finger  across  his  brow,  as  if  driv- 
ing back  some  hostile  sei'ies  of  ideas  ; '  and  farther  complaint 
he  did  not  utter.1  During  this  sad  period,  he  Avrote  out  for 
himself  a  little  manual  of  practical  philosophy,  naming  it 
Andachtsbuch  (Book  of  Devotion),  which  contains  such  max- 
ims as  these  : 

'  Every  unpleasant  feeling  is  a  sign  that  I  have  become  untrue  to 
my  resolutions.  —  Epictetus  was  not  unhappy.  — 

'Not  chance,  but  I  am  to  blame  for  my  sufferings. 

'  It  were  an  impossible  miracle  if  none  befell  thee  :  look  for  their 
coming,  therefore ;  each  day  make  thyself  sure  of  many. 

'  Say  not,  were  my  sorrows  other  than  these,  I  should  bear  them 
better. 

'  Think  of  the  host  of  Worlds,  and  of  the  plagues  on  this  World- 
mote.  —  Death  puts  an  end  to  the  whole.  — 

'  For  virtue's  sake  I  am  here  :  but  if  a  man,  for  his  task,  forgets 
and  sacrifices  all,  why  shouldst  not  thou  ?  — 

'Expect  injuries,  for  men  are  weak,  and  thou  thyself  doest  such 
too  often. 

'  Mollify  thy  heart  by  painting  out  the  sufferings  of  thy  enemy  ; 
think  of  him  as  of  one  spiritually  sick,  who  deserves  sympathy.  — 

'Most  men  judge  so  badly;  why  wouldst  thou  be  praised  by  a 
child  1  —  No  one  would  respect  thee  in  a  beggar's  coat :  what  is  a 
respect  that  is  paid  to  woollen  cloth,  not  to  thee  1 ' 

1  In  bodily  pain,  lie  \v:is  wont  to  show  the  like  endurance  and  indiffer- 
ence. At  one  period  of  his  life,  he  had  violent  headaches,  which  forced 
him,  for  the  sake  of  a  Blight  alleviation,  to  keep  his  head  perfectly  erect; 
you  might  see  him  talking  with  a  calm  face  and  all  his  old  gaiety,  and 
only  know  by  this  posture  that  he  was  suffering. 


JEAN  PAUL  FBIEDPJCH  RICHTER. 


185 


These  are  wise  maxims  for  so  young  a  man ;  but  what 
was  wiser  still,  he  did  not  rest  satisfied  with  mere  maxims, 
which,  how  true  soever,  are  only  a  dead  letter,  till  Action 
first  gives  them  life  and  worth.  Besides  devout  prayer  to 
the  gods,  he  set  his  own  shoulder  to  the  wheel.  '  Evil,' 
says  he,  '  is  like  a  nightmare  ;  the  instant  you  begin  to  strive 
'  with  it,  to  bestir  yourself,  it  has  already  ended.'  Without 
larther  parleying,  there  as  he  stood,  Richter  grappled  with  his 
Fate,  and  resolutely  determined  on  self-help.  His  means, 
it  is  true,  were  of  the  most  unpromising  sort,  yet  the  only 
means  he  had :  the  writing  of  Books  !  He  forthwith  com- 
menced writing  them.  The  Groiilandische  Prozesse  (Green- 
land Lawsuits),  a  collection  of  satirical  sketches,  full  of  wild 
gay  wit  and  keen  insight,  was  composed  in  that  base  en- 
vironment of  his,  with  unpaid  milkscores  and  unsoled  boots ; 
and  even  still  survives,  though  the  Author,  besides  all  other 
disadvantages,  was  then  only  in  his  nineteenth  year.  But 
the  heaviest  part  of  the  business  yet  remained ;  that  of  find- 
ing a  purchaser  and  publisher.  Richter  tried  all  Leipzig 
with  his  manuscript,  in  vain ;  to  a  man,  with  that  total  con- 
tempt of  Grammar  which  Jedediah  Cleishbotham  also  com- 
plains of,  they  1  declined  the  article.'  Paul  had  to  stand  by, 
as  so  many  have  done,  and  see  his  sunbeams  weighed  on 
hay-scales,  and  the  hay-balance  give.no  symptoms  of  mov- 
ing. But  Paul's  heart  moved  as  little  as  the  balance.  Leip- 
zig being  now  exhausted,  the  World  was  all  before  him  where 
to  try  ;  he  had  nothing  for  it,  but  to  search  till  he  found,  or 
till  he  died  searching.  One  Voss  of  Berlin  at  length  be- 
stirred himself ;  accepted,  printed  the  Book,  and  even  gave 
him  sixteen  louis  d'or  for  it.  What  a  Potosi  was  here! 
Paul  determined  to  be  an  author  henceforth,  and  nothing 
but  an  author ;  now  that  his  soul  might  even  be  kept  in  his 
body  by  that  trade.  His  mother,  hearing  that  he  had  writ- 
ten a  book,  thought  that  perhaps  he  could  even  write  a  ser- 
mon, and  was  for  his  coming  down  to  preach  in  the  High 
Church  of  Hof.    '  What  is  a  sermon,'  said  Paul,  '  which 


18G 


MISCELLANIES. 


'  every  miserable  student  can  spout  forth  ?  Or,  think  you, 
'  there  is  a  parson  in  Hof  that,  not  to  speak  of  writing  my 
'  Book,  can,  in  the  smallest  degree,  understand  it  ? ' 

But  unfortunately  his  Potosi  was  like  other  mines  ;  the 
metalliferous  vein  did  not  last ;  what  miners  call  a  shift  or 
trouble  occurred  in  it,  and  now  there  was  nothing  but  hard 
rock  to  hew  on.  The  Grbnlandische  Prozesse,  though 
printed,  did  not  sell ;  the  public  was  in  quest  of  pap  and 
treacle,  not  of  fierce  curry  like  this.  The  Reviewing  world 
mostly  passed  it  by  without  notice  ;  one  poor  dog  in  Leip- 
zig even  lifted  up  his  leg  over  it.  '  For  anything  we  know,' 
saith  he,  '  much,  if  not  all  of  what  the  Author  here,  in  bit- 
i  ter  tone,  sets  forth  on  bookmaking,  theologians,  women  and 
'  so  on,  may  be  true  ;  but  throughout  the  whole  work,  the 
'  determination  to  be  witty  acts  on  him  so  strongly,  that  we 
'  cannot  doubt  but  his  book  will  excite  in  all  rational  readers 
'  so  much  disgust,  that  they  will  see  themselves  constrained  to 
'  close  it  again  without  delay.'  And  herewith  the  ill-starred 
quadruped  passes  on,  as  if  nothing  special  had  happened. 
'  Singular ! '  adds  Herr  Otto,  '  this  review,  which  at  the 
'  time  pretended  to  some  ephemeral  attention,  and  likely 
'  enough  obtained  it,  would  have  fallen  into  everlasting  ob- 
'  livion,  had  not  its  connexion  with  that  very  work,  which 
'  every  rational  reader  was  to  close  again,  or  rather  never 
'  to  open,  raised  it  up  for  moments ! '  One  moment,  say 
we,  is  enough  :  let  it  drop  again  into  that  murky  pool,  and 
sink  there  to  endless  depths  ;  for  all  flesh,  and  reviewer- 
flesh  too,  is  fallible  and  pardonable. 

Richter's  next  Book  was  soon  ready  ;  but,  in  this  position 
of  affairs,  no  man  would  buy  it.  The  Selection  from  the 
Papers  of  the  Devil,  such  was  its  wonderful  title,  lay  by  him, 
on  quite  another  principle  than  the  Horatian  one,  for  seven 
long  years.  It  was  in  vain  that  he  exhibited,  and  corre- 
sponded, and  left  no  stone  unturned,  ransacking  the  world  for 
a  publisher ;  there  was  none  anywhere  to  be  met  with.  The 
unwearied  Richter  tried  other  plans.    He  presented  Maga- 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDKICH  RICHTER. 


187 


zine  Editors  with  Essays,  some  one  in  ten  of  which  might  be 
accepted  ;  he  made  joint-stock  with  certain  provincial  literati 
of  the  Hof  district,  who  had  cash,  and  published  for  them- 
selves ;  he  sometimes  borrowed,  but  was  in  hot  haste  to  re- 
pay ;  he  lived  as  the  young  ravens ;  he  was  often  in  danger 
of  starving.  '  The  prisoner's  allowance,'  says  he,  '  is  bread 
and  water ;  but  I  had  only  the  latter.' 

'  Nowhere,'  observes  Richter  on  another  occasion,  '  can 
'you  collect  the  stress-memorials  and  siege-medals  of  Pov- 
\  erty  more  pleasantly  and  philosophically  than  at  College  : 
'the  Academic  Burschen  exhibit  to  us  how  many  Humorists 
'  and  Diogeneses  Germany  has  in  it.' 1  Travelling  through 
this  parched  Sahara,  with  nothing  round  him  but  stern  sandy 
solitude,  and  no  landmark  on  Earth,  but  only  loadstars  in 
the  Heaven,  Richter  does  not  anywhere  appear  to  have  fal- 
tered in  his  progress ;  for  a  moment  to  have  lost  heart,  or 
even  to  have  lost  good  humour.  '  The  man  who  fears  not 
death,'  says  the  Greek  Poet,  '  will  start  at  no  shadows.' 
Paul  had  looked  Desperation  full  in  the  face,  and  found  that 
for  him  she  was  not  desperate.  Sorely  pressed  on  from 
without,  his  inward  energy,  his  strength  both  of  thought  and 
resolve  did  but  increase,  and  establish  itself  on  a  surer  and 
surer  foundation ;  he  stood  like  a  rock  amid  the  beating  of 
continual  tempests ;  nay,  a  rock  crowned  with  foliage ;  and 

1  By  certain  speculators  on  German  affairs,  much  has  been  written  and 
talked  about  what  is,  after  all,  a  very  slender  item  in  German  affairs,  the 
Burschenkben,  or  manners  of  the  young  men  at  Universities.  We  must 
regret  that  in  discussing  this  matter,  since  it  was  thought  worth  discuss- 
ing, the  true  significance  and  soul  of  it  should  not  have  been,  by  some 
faint  indication,  pointed  out  to  us.  Apart  from  its  duelling  punctilios,  and 
beer-songs,  and  tobacco-smoking,  and  other  fopperies  of  the  system,  which 
are  to  the  German  student  merely  what  coach-driving  and  horse-dealing, 
and  other  kindred  fopperies,  are  to  the  English,  Burschenism  is  not  with- 
out its  meaning  more  than  Oxfordism  or  Cambridgeism.  The  Bursch 
strives  to  say  in  the  strongest  language  he  can :  "  See !  I  am  an  unmoneyed 
scholar,  and  a  free  man  ;  "  the  Oxonian  and  Cantab,  again,  endeavour  to 
say:  "See!  I  am  a  moneyed  scholar,  and  a  spirited  gentleman."  We 
rather  think  the  Bursch's  assertion,  were  it  rightly  worded,  would  bethe 
more  profitable  of  the  two. 


188 


MISCELLANIES. 


in  its  clefts  nourishing  flowers  of  sweetest  perfume.  For 
there  was  a  passionate  fire  in  him,  as  well  as  a  stoical  calm- 
ness ;  tenderest  Love  was  there,  and  Devout  Reverence ; 
and  a  deep  genial  Humour  lay,  like  warm  sunshine,  softening 
the  whole,  blending  the  whole  into  light  sportful  harmony. 
In  these  its  hard  trials,  whatever  was  noblest  in  his  nature 
came  out  in  still  purer  clearness.  It  was  here  that  he 
learned  to  distinguish  what  is  perennial  and  imperishable  in 
man,  from  what  is  transient  and  earthly ;  and  to  prize  the 
latter,  were  it  king's  crowns  and  conqueror's  triumphal 
chariots,  but  as  the  wrappage  of  the  jewel ;  we  might  say, 
but  as  the  finer  or  coarser  Paper  on  which  the  Heroic 
Poem  of  Life  is  to  be  written.  A  lofty  indestructible  faith 
in  the  dignity  of  man  took  possession  of  him,  and  a  disbelief 
in  all  other  dignities ;  and  the  vulgar  world,  and  what  it 
could  give  him,  or  withhold  from  him,  was,  in  his  eyes,  but  a 
small  matter.  Nay,  had  he  not  found  a  voice  for  these 
things ;  which,  though  no  man  would  listen  to  it,  he  felt  to 
be  a  true  one,  and  that  if  true  no  tone  of  it  could  be  alto- 
gether lost.  Preaching  forth  the  Wisdom,  which  in  the.  dark 
deep  wells  of  Adversity  he  had  drawn  up,  he  felt  himself 
strong,  courageous,  even  gay.  He  had  '  an  internal  world 
wherewith  to  fence  himself  against  the  frosts  and  heats  of 
the  external.'  Studying,  writing,  in  this  mood,  though  grim 
Scarcity  looked-in  on  him  through  the  windows,  he  ever 
looked  out  again  on  that  fiend  with  a  quiet,  half-satirical  eye. 
Surely,  we  should  find  it  hard  to  wish  any  generous  nature 
such  fortune :  yet  is  one  such  man,  nursed  into  manhood 
amid  these  stern,  truth-telling  influences,  worth  a  thousand 
popular  ballad-mongers,  and  sleek  literary  gentlemen,  kept 
in  perpetual  boyhood  by  influences  that  always  lie. 

'  In  my  Historical  Lectures,'  says  Paul,  '  the  business  of  Hunger- 
ing will  in  truth  more  and  more  make  its  appearance, — with  the 
hero  it  rises  to  a  great  height,  —  about  as  often  as  Feasting  in  Tluua- 
mel's  Travels,  and  Tea-drinking  in  Riebardson's  Clarissa  ;  neverthe- 
less, I  cannot  help  saying  to  Poverty  :  Welcome !  so  thou  come  not 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDEICH  RICHIE  R. 


189 


at  quite  too  late  a  time*!  Wealth  bears  heavier  on  talent  than  Pov- 
erty; under  gold-mountains  and  thrones,  who  knows  how  many  a 
spiritual  giant  may  lie  crushed  down  and  buried !  When  among  the 
flames  of  youth,  and  above  all  of  hotter  powers  as  well,  the  oil  of 
Riches  is  also  poured  in,  —  little  will  remain  of  the  Phoenix  but  his 
ashes ;  and  only  a  Goethe  has  force  to  keep,  even  at  the  sun  of  good 
fortune,  his  phoenix-wings  unsinged.  The  poor  Historical  Professor, 
in  this  place,  would  not,  for  much  money,  have  had  much  money  in 
his  youth.  Fate  manages  Poets,  as  men  do  singing-birds ;  you  over- 
hang the  cage  of  the  singer  and  make  it  dark,  till  at  length  he  has 
caught  the  tunes  you  play  to  him,  and  can  sing  them  rightly.' 

There  have  been  many  Johnsons,  Heynes  and  other  meaner 
natures,  in  every  country,  that  have  passed  through  as  hard 
a  probation  as  Richter's  was,  and  borne  permanent  traces  of 
its  good  and  its  evil  influences ;  some,  with  their  modesty 
and  quiet  endurance,  combining  a  sickly  dispiritment,  others 
a  hardened  dulness  or  even  deadness  of  heart;  nay,  there 
are  some  whom  Misery  itself  cannot  teach,  but  only  exasper- 
ate ;  who  far  from  parting  with  the  mirror  of  their  Vanity, 
when  it  is  trodden  in  pieces,  rather  collect  the  hundred  frag- 
ments of  it,  and  with  more  fondness  and  more  bitterness  than 
ever,  behold  not  one  but  a  hundred  images  of  Self  therein : 
to  these  men  Pain  is  a  pure  evil,  and  as  school-dunces  their 
hard  Pedagogue  will  only  whip  them  to  the  end.  But  in 
modern  days,  and  even  among  the  better  instances,  there  is 
scarcely  one  that  we  remember  who  has  drawn,  from,  pov- 
erty and  suffering,  such  unmixed  advantage  as  Jean  Paul ; 
acquiring  under  it  not  only  Herculean  strength,  but  the  soft- 
est tenderness  of  soul ;  a  view  of  man  and  man's  life  not 
less  cheerful,  even  sportful,  than  it  is  deep  and  calm.  To 
Fear  he  is  a  stranger ;  not  only  the  rage  of  men,  '  the  ruins 
of  Nature  would  strike  him  fearless ; '  yet  he  has  a  heai't 
vibrating  to  all  the  finest  thrills  of  Mercy,  a  deep  loving 
sympathy  with  all  created  things.  There  is,  we  must  say, 
something  Old-Grecian  in  this  form  of  mind  ;  yet  Old-Gre- 
cian under  the  new  conditions  of  our  own  time ;  not  an 
Ethnic,  but  a  Christian  greatness.    Richter  might  have  stood 


190 


MISCELLANIES. 


beside  Socrates,  as  a  faithful  though  rather  tumultuous  disci- 
ple ;  or  better  still,  he  might  have  bandied  repartees  with 
Diogenes,  who,  if  he  could  nowhere  find  Men,  must  at  least 
have  admitted  that  this  too  was  a  Spartan  Boy.  Diogenes 
and  he,  much  as  they  differed,  mostly  to  the  disadvantage  of 
the  former,  would  have  found  much  in  common :  above  all, 
that  resolute  self-dependence,  and  quite  settled  indifference 
to  the  'force  of  public  opinion.'  Of  this  latter  quality,  as 
well  as  of  various  other  qualities  in  Richter,  we  have  a 
curious  proof  in  the  Episode,  which  Herr  Otto  here  for  the 
first  time  details  with  accuracy,  and  at  large,  '  concerning  the 
Costume  controversies.'  There  is  something  great  as  well  as 
ridiculous  in  this  whole  story  of  the  Costume,  which  we  must 
not  pass  unnoticed.  It  was  in  the  second  year  of  his  resi- 
dence at  Leipzig,  and  when,  as  we  have  seen,  his  necessities 
were  pressing  enough,  that  Richter,  finding  himself  unpatron- 
ised  by  the  World,  thought  it  might  be  reasonable  if  he  paid 
a  little  attention,  as  far  as  convenient,  to  the  wishes,  rational 
orders  and  even  whims  of  his  only  other  Patron,  namely,  of 
Himself.  Now  the  long  visits  of  the  hair-dresser,  with  his 
powders,  puffs  and  pomatums,  were  decidedly  irksome  to 
him,  and  even  too  expensive ;  besides,  his  love  of  Swift  and 
Sterne  made  him  love  the  English  and  their  modes ;  which 
things  being  considered,  Paul  made  free  to  cut  off  his  cue 
altogether,  and  with  certain  other  alterations  in  his  dress,  to 
walk  abroad  in  what  was  called  the  English  fashion.  "We 
rather  conjecture  that,  in  some  points,  it  was,  after  all,  but 
Pseudo-English ;  at  least,  we  can  find  no  tradition  of  any 
such  mode  having  then  or  ever  been  prevalent  here  in  its 
other  details.  For  besides  the  docked  cue,  he  had  shirts  a 
la  Hamlet;  wore  his  breast  open,  without  neckcloth:  in  such 
guise  did  he  appear  openly.  Astonishment  took  hold  of  the 
minds  of  men.  German  students  have  more  license  than 
most  people  in  selecting  fantastic  garbs ;  but  the  bare  neck 
and  want  of  cue  seemed  graces  beyond  the  reach  of  true  art. 
We  can  figure  the  massive,  portly  cynic,  with  what  humour 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


191 


twinkling  in  his  eye  he  came  forth  among  the  elegant  gentle- 
men ;  feeling,  like  that  juggler-divinity  Ramdass,  well  known 
to  Baptist  Missionaries,  that  "  he  had  fire  enough  in  his  stom- 
ach to  burn  away  all  the  sins  of  the  world.'  It  was  a  species 
of  pride,  even  of  foppery,  we  will  admit ;  but  a  tough,  strong- 
limbed  species,  like  that  which  in  ragged  gown  '  trampled  on 
the  pride  of  Plato.' 

Nowise  in  so  i-espectable  a  light,  however,  did  a  certain 
Magister,  or  pedagogue  dignitary,  of  Richter's  neighbourhood, 
regard  the  matter.  Poor  Richter,  poor  in  purse,  rich  other- 
wise, had,  at  this  time,  hired  for  himself  a  small  mean  gar- 
den-house, that  he  might  have  a  little  fresh  air,  through 
summer,  in  his  studies  :  the  Magister,  who  had  hired  a  large 
sumptuous  one  in  the  same  garden,  naturally  met  him  in  his 
walks,  bare -necked,  cueless ;  and  perhaps  not  liking  the  cast 
of  his  countenance,  strangely  twisted  into  Sardonic  wrinkles, 
with  all  its  broad  honest  benignity,  —  took  it  in  deep  dudgeon 
that  such  an  unauthorized  character  should  venture  to  enjoy 
Nature  beside  him.  But  what  was  to  be  done  ?  Supercil- 
ious looks,  even  frowning,  would  accomplish  nothing ;  the 
Sardonic  visage  was  not  to  be  frowned  into  the  smallest 
terror.  The  Magister  wrote  to  the  landlord,  demanding  that 
this  nuisance  should  be  abated.  Richter,  with  a  praiseworthy 
love  of  peace,  wrote  to  the  Magister,  promising  to  do  what 
he  could :  he  would  not  approach  his  (the  Magister's)  house 
so  near  as  last  night ;  would  walk  only  in  the  evenings  and 
mornings,  and  thereby  for  most  part  keep  out  of  sight  the 
apparel  'which  convenience,  health  and  poverty  had  pre- 
scribed for  him.'  These  wrere  fair  conditions  of  a  boundary- 
treaty ;  but  the  Magister  interpreted  them  in  too  literal  a 
sense,  and  soon  found  reason  to  complain  that  they  had  been 
infringed.  He  again  took  pen  and  ink,  and  in  peremptory 
language  represented  that  Paul  had  actually  come  past  a 
certain  Statue,  which,  without  doubt,  stood  within  the  de- 
batable land ;  threatening  him,  therefore,  with  Herr  Korner, 
the  landlord's  vengeance,  and  withal  openly  testifying  his 


192 


MISCELLANIES. 


own  contempt  and  just  rage  against  him.  Paul  answered, 
also  in  writing,  That  he  had  nowise  infringed  his  promise, 
this  Statue,  or  any  other  Statue,  having  nothing  to  do  with 
it ;  but  that  now  he  did  altogether  revoke  said  promise,  and 
would  henceforth  walk  whensoever  and  wheresoever  seemed 
good  to  him,  seeing  he  too  paid  for  the  privilege.  '  To  me,' 
observed  he,  '  Herr  Korner  is  not  dreadful  (furchterlich)  ; ' 
and  for  the  Magister  himself  he  put  down  these  remarkable 
words  :  '  You  despise  my  mean  name ;  nevertheless  take  note 
'  of  it  ;  for  you  will  not  have  done  the  latter  long,  till  the  former 
'  will  not  be  in  your  power  to  do  :  I  speak  ambiguously,  that  I 
'  may  not  speak  arrogantly.'  Be  it  noted,  at  the  same  time, 
that  with  a  noble  spirit  of  accommodation,  Richter  proposed 
yet  new  terms  of  treaty  ;  which  being  accepted,  he,  pursuant 
thereto,  with  bag  and  baggage  forthwith  evacuated  the  gar- 
den, and  returned  to  his  '  town-room  at  the  Three  Roses,  in 
Peterstrasse  ; '  glorious  in  retreat,  and  *  leaving  his  Paradise,' 
as  Herr  Otto  with  some  conceit  remark*,  'no  less  guiltlessly 
'than  voluntarily,  for  a  certain  bareness  of  breast  and  neck; 
'  whereas  our  First  Parents  were  only  allowed  to  retain  theirs 
'  so  long  as  they  felt  themselves  innocent  in  total  nudity.' 
What  the  Magister  thought  of  the  '  mean  name '  some  years 
afterwards,  we  do  not  learn. 

But  if  such  tragical  things  went  on  in  Leipzig,  how  much 
more  when  he  went  down  to  Hof  in  the  holidays,  where,  at 
any  rate,  the  Richters  stood  in  slight  esteem  !  It  will  sur- 
prise our  readers  to  learn  that  Paul,  with  the  mildest-tem- 
pered pe.rtinacity,  resisted  all  expostulations  of  friends,  and 
persecutions  of  foes,  in  this  great  cause  ;  and  went  about 
a  la  Hamlet,  for  the  space  of  no  less  than  seven  years  !  He 
himself  seemed  partly  sensible  that  it  was  affectation;  but 
the  man  would  have  his  humour  out.  'On  the  whole,'  says 
he, '  I  hold  the  constant  regard  we  pay,  in  all  our  actions,  to  the 
'judgments  of  others,  as  the  poison  of  our  peace,  our  reason 
'  and  our  virtue.  At  this  slave-chain  I  have  long  filed,  and  I 
*  scarcely  ever  hope  to  break  it  entirely  asunder.    I  wish  to 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


193 


'accustom  myself  to  the  censure  of  others,  and  appear  a  fool, 
'  that  I  may  learn  to  endure  fools.'  So  speaks  the  young 
Diogenes,  embracing  his  frozen  pillar,  by  way  of  '  exercita- 
tion  ; '  as  if  the  world  did  not  give  us  frozen  pillars  enough 
in  this  kind,  without  our  wilfully  stepping  aside  to  seek  them ! 
Better  is  that  other  maxim :  '  He  who  differs  from  the  world 
'in  important  matters,  should  the  more  carefully  conform  to 
'it  in  indifferent  ones.'  Nay,  by  degrees,  Richter  himself 
saw  into  this ;  and  having  now  proved  satisfactorily  enough 
that  he  could  take  his  own  way  when  he  so  pleased,  —  leav- 
ing, as  is  fair,  the  '  most  sweet  voices  '  to  take  theirs  also,  — 
he  addressed  to  his  friends  (chiefly  the  Voigtland  Literati 
above  alluded  to)  the  following  circular : 

'  Advertisement. 

'The  Undersigned  begs  to  give  notice,  that  whereas  cropt  hair  has 
as  many  enemies  as  red  hair,  and  said  enemies  of  the  hair  are  ene- 
mies likewise  of  the  person  it  grows  on ;  whereas  farther,  sucli  a 
fashion  is  in  no  respect  Christian,  since  otherwise  Christian  persons 
would  have  adopted  it ;  and  whereas,  especially,  the  Undersigned  has 
suffered  no  less  from  his  hair  than  Absalom  did  from  his,  though  on 
contrary  grounds ;  and  whereas  it  has  been  notified  that  the  public 
purposed  to  send  him  into  his  grave,  since  the  hair  grew  there  with- 
out scissors  :  he  hereby  gives  notice  that  he  will  not  push  matters  to 
such  extremity.  Be  it  known,  therefore,  to  the  nobility,  gentry  and 
a  discerning  public  in  general,  that  the  Undersigned  proposes,  on 
Sunday  next,  to  appear  in  various  important  streets  (of  Hof )  with  a 
short  false  cue  ;  and  with  this  cue  as  with  a  magnet,  and  cord-of-love, 
and  magic-rod,  to  possess  himself  forcibly  of  the  affections  of  all  and 
sundry,  be  who  they  may.' 

And  thus  ended  '  gloriously,'  as  Herr  Otto  thinks,  the  long 
'  clothes-martyrdom ; '  from  the  course  of  which,  besides  its 
intrinsic  comicality,  we  may  learn  two  things :  first,  that  Paul 
nowise  wanted  a  due  indifference  to  the  popular  wind,  but, 
on  fit  or  unfit  occasion,  could  stand  on  his  own  basis  stoutly 
enough,  wrapping  his  cloak  as  himself  listed ;  and  secondly, 
that  he  had  such  a  buoyant,  elastic  humour  of  spirit,  that 
besides  counter-pressure  against  Poverty,  and  Famine  itself, 

VOL.  II.  13 


194 


MISCELLANIES. 


there  was  still  a  clear  overplus  left  to  play  fantastic  tricks 
with,  at  which  the  angels  could  not  indeed  weep,  but  might 
well  shake  their  heads  and  smile.    We  return  to  our  history. 

Several  years  before  the  date  of  this  1  Advertisement,' 
namely  in  1784,  Paul,  who  had  now  determined  on  writing, 
with  or  without  readers,  to  the  end  of  the  chapter,  finding  no 
furtherance  in  Leipzig  but  only  hunger  and  hardship,  be- 
thought him  that  he  might  as  well  write  in  Hof  beside  his 
mother  as  there.  His  publishers,  when  he  had  any,  were  in 
other  cities ;  and  the  two  households,  like  two  dying  embers, 
might  perhaps  show  some  feeble  point  of  red-heat  between 
them,  if  cunningly  laid  together.  He  quitted  Leipzig,  after 
a  three-years'  residence  there  ;  and  fairly  commenced  house- 
keeping on  his  own  score.  Probably  there  is  not  in  the 
whole  history  of  Literature  any  record  of  a  literary  establish- 
ment like  that  at  Hof ;  so  ruggedly  independent,  so  simple, 
not  to  say  altogether  unfurnished.  Lawsuits  had  now  clone 
their  work,  and  the  Widow  Richter,  with  her  family,  was 
living  in  a  '  house  containing  one  apartment.'  Paul  had  no 
books,  except  '  twelve  manuscript  volumes  of  excerpts,'  and 
the  considerable  library  which  he  carried  in  his  head;  with 
which  small  resources,  the  public,  especially  as  he  had  still 
no  cue,  could  not  well  see  what  was  to  become  of  him.  Two 
great  furtherances,  however,  he  had,  of  which  the  public  took 
no  sufficient  note :  a  real  Head  on  his  shoulders,  not,  as  is 
more  common,  a  mere  hat-wearing  empty  effigies  of  a  head  ; 
and  the  strangest,  stoutest,  indeed  a  quite  noble  Heart  within 
him.  Here,  then,  he  could,  as  is  the  duty  of  man,  '  prize  his 
existence  more  than  his  manner  of  existence,'  which  latter 
was,  indeed,  easily  enough  disesteemed.  Come  of  it  what 
might,  he  determined,  on  his  own  strength,  to  try  issues  to 
the  uttermost  with  Fortune  ;  nay,  while  fighting  like  a  very 
Ajax  against  her,  to  'keep  laughing  in  her  face  till  she  too 
burst  into  laughter,  and  ceased  frowning  at  him.'  lie  would 
nowise  slacken  in  his  Authorship,  therefore,  but  continued 
stubbornly  toiling,  as  at  his  right  work,  let  the  weather  be 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


195 


sunny  or  snowy.  For  the  rest,  Poverty  was  written  on  the 
posts  of  his  door,  and  within  on  every  equipment  of  his  exist- 
ence ;  he  that  ran  might  read  in  large  characters  :  "  Good 
Christian  people,  you  perceive  that  I  have  little  money ;  what 
inference  do  you  draw  from  it  ?  "  So  hung  the  struggle,  and 
as  yet  were  no  signs  of  victory  for  Paul.  It  was  not  till 
1788  that  he  could  find  a  publisher  for  his  Teufels  Papieren; 
and  even  then  few  readers.  But  no  disheartenment  availed 
with  him  ;  Authorship  was  once  for  all  felt  to  be  his  true 
vocation  ;  and  by  it  he  was  minded  to  continue  at  all  haz- 
ards. For  a  short  while,  he  had  been  tutor  in  some  family, 
and  had  again  a  much  more  tempting  offer  of  the  like  sort, 
but  he  refused  it,  purposing  henceforth  to  'bring  up  no 
children  but  his  own,  —  his  books,'  let  Famine  say  to  it  what 
she  pleased. 

'  With  his  mother/  says  Otto,  '  and  at  times  also  with  several  of 
his  brothers,  but  always  with  one,  he  lived  in  a  mean  house,  which 
had  only  a  single  apartment ;  and  this  went  on  even  when,  —  after 
the  appearance  of  the  Mlimien,  —  his  star  began  to  rise,  ascending 
higher  and  higher,  and  never  again  declining.       *       *  * 

'As  Paul,  in  the  characters  of  Walt  and  Vult1  (it  is  his  direct 
statement  in  these  Notes),  meant  to  depict  himself ;  so  it  may  be  re- 
marked, that  in  the  delineation  of  Lenette,  his  Mother  stood  before 
his  mind,  at  the  period  when  this  down-pressed  and  humiliated 
woman  began  to  gather  heart,  and  raise  herself  up  again;2  seeing 
she  could  no  longer  doubt  the  truth  of  his  predictions,  that  Author- 
ship must  and  would  prosper  with  him.  She  now  the  more  busily, 
in  one  and  the  same  room  where  Paul  was  writing  and  studying, 
managed  the  household  operations ;  cooking,  washing,  scouring, 
handling  the  broom,  and  these  being  finished,  spinning  cotton.  Of 
the  painful  income  earned  by  this  latter  employment,  she  kept  a 

1  Gottwalt  and  Quoddeusvult,  two  Brothers  (see  Paul's  Flegeljahre)  of 
the  most  opposite  temperaments:  the  former  a  still,  soft-hearted,  tearful 
enthusiast;  the  other  a  madcap  humorist,  honest  at  bottom,  but  bursting 
out  on  all  hands  with  the  strangest  explosions,  speculative  and  practical. 

2  1  Quite  up,  indeed,  she  could  never  more  rise;  and  in  silent  humility, 
'avoiding  any  loud  expression  of  satisfaction,  she  lived  to  enjoy  with 
'  timorous  gladness,  the  delight  of  seeing  her  son's  worth  publicly  rec- 
'  ognised,  and  his  acquaintance  sought  by  the  most  influential  men,  and 
'  herself  too  honoured  on  this  account,  as  she  had  never  before  been.' 


196 


MISCELLANIES. 


written  account.  One  such  revenue-book,  under  the  title,  Was  ich 
ersponnen  (Earned  by  spinning),  which  extends  from  March  1793  to 
September  1794,  is  still  in  existence.  The  produce  of  March,  the 
first  year,  stands  entered  there  as  2  florins,  51  kreutzers,  3  pfennigs  ' 
(somewhere  about  four  shillings  !)  j  '  that  of  April,'  &c. ;  '  at  last,  that 
of  September  1794,  2  fl.  1  kr. ;  and  on  the  last  page  of  the  little 
book,  stands  marked,  that  Samuel  (the  youngest  son)  had,  on  the 
9th  of  this  same  September,  got  new  boots,  which  cost  3  thalers,'  — 
almost  a  whole  quarter's  revenue  ! 

Considering  these  things,  how  mournful  would  it  have 
seemed  to  Paul  that  Bishop  Dogbolt  could  not  get  translated, 
because  of  Politics  ;  and  the  too  high-souled  Viscount  Plum- 
cake,  thwarted  in  courtship,  was  seized  with  a  perceptible 
dyspepsia  ! 

We  have  dwelt  the  longer  on  this  portion  of  Paul's  his- 
tory, because  we  reckon  it  interesting  in  itself ;  and  that  if 
the  spectacle  of  a  great  man  struggling  with  adversity  be  a 
fit  one  for  the  gods  to  look  down  on,  much  more  must  it  be 
so  for  mean  fellow-mortals  to  look  up  to.  For  us  in  Literary 
England,  above  all,  such  conduct  as  Richter's  has  a  peculiar 
interest  in  these  times  ;  the  interest  of  entire  novelty.  Of 
all  literary  phenomena,  that  of  a  literary  man  daring  to  be- 
lieve that  he  is  poor,  may  be  regarded  as  the  rarest.  Can  a 
man  without  capital  actually  open  his  lips  and  speak  to  man- 
kind ?  Had  he  no  landed  property,  then  ;  no  connexion 
with  the  higher  classes  ;  did  he  not  even  keep  a  gig  ?  By 
these  documents  it  would  appear  so.  This  was  not  a  noble- 
man, nor  gentleman,  nor  gigman  ; 1  but  simply  a  man  ! 

On  the  whole,  what  a  wondrous  spirit  of  gentility  does 
animate  our  British  Literature  at  this  era!  We  have  no 
Men  of  Letters  now,  but  only  Literary  Gentlemen.  Samuel 

1  In  Thurtell's  trial  (says  the  Quarterly  Review)  occurred  the  following 
colloquy:  '  Q.  What  sort  of  person  was  Mr.  Weave?  A.  He  was  always 
a  respectable  person.  Q.  What  do  you  mean  by  respectable?  A.  He 
kept  a  gig.'  —  Since  then  we  have  seen  a  '  Defensio  Girjmanica,  or  Apology 
for  the  Gigmen  of  Great  Britain,'  composed  not  without  eloquence,  and 
which  we  hope  one  day  to  prevail  on  our  friend,  a  man  of  some  whims, 
to  give  to  the  public. 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


197 


Johnson  was  the  las't  that  ventured  to  appear  in  that  former 
character,  and  support  himself,  on  his  own  legs,  without  any 
crutches,  purchased  or  stolen  :  rough  old  Samuel,  the  last  of 
all  the  Romans  !  Time  was,  when  in  English  Literature,  as 
in  English  Life,  the  comedy  of  '  Every  Man  in  his  Humour ' 
was  daily  enacted  among  us ;  but  now  the  poor  French  word, 
French  in  every  sense,  '  Qu'en  dira-t-on  ? '  spellbinds  us  all, 
and  we  have  nothing  for  it  but  to  drill  and  cane  each  other 
into  one  uniform,  regimental  '  nation  of  gentlemen.'  '  Let 
him  who  would  write  heroic  poems,'  said  Milton,  '  make  his 
life  a  heroic  poem.'  Let  him  who  would  write  heroic  poems, 
say  we,  put  money  in  his  purse  ;  or  if  he  have  no  gold-mon- 
ey, let  him  put  in  copper-money,  or  pebbles,  and  chink  with 
it  as  with  true  metal,  in  the  ears  of  mankind,  that  they  may 
listen  to  him.  Herein  does  the  secret  of  good  writing  now 
consist,  as  that  of  good  living  has  always  done.  When  we 
first  visited  Grub-street,  and  with  bared  head  did  reverence 
to  the  genius  of  the  place,  with  a  "  Salve,  magna  parens  !  " 
we  were  astonished  to  learn,  on  inquiry,  that  the  Authors  did 
not  dwell  there  now,  but  had  all  removed,  years  ago,  to  a  sort 
of  '  High  Life  below  Stairs,'  far  in  the  West.  For  why, 
what  remedy  was  there ;  did  not  the  wants  of  the  age  re- 
quire it  ?  How  can  men  write  without  High  Life  ;  and 
how,  except  below  Stairs,  as  Shoulder-knot,  or  as  talking 
Katerfelto,  or  by  secondhand  communication  with  these  two, 
can  the  great  body  of  men  acquire  any  knowledge  thereof? 
Nay,  has  not  the  Atlantis,  or  true  Blissful  Island  of  Poesy, 
been,  in  all  times,  understood  to  lie  Westward,  though  never 
rightly  discovered  till  now  ?  Our  great  fault  with  writers 
used  to  be,  not  that  they  were  intrinsically  more  or  less  com- 
pleted Dolts,  with  no  eye  or  ear  for  the  'open  secret'  of  the 
world,  or  for  anything  save  the  '  open  display '  of  the  world, 
—  for  its  gilt  ceilings,  marketable  pleasures,  war-chariots, 
and  all  manner,  to  the  highest  manner,  of  Lord-Mayor 
shows,  and  Guildhall  dinners,  and  their  own  small  part  and 
lot  therein  ;  but  the  head  and  front  of  their  offence  lay  in 


198 


MISCELLANIES. 


this,  that  they  had  not  '  frequented  the  society  of  the  upper 
classes.'  And  now,  with  our  improved  age,  and  this  so  uni- 
versal extension  of  '  High  Life  below  Stairs,'  what  a  blessed 
change  has  been  introduced  ;  what  benign  consequences  will 
follow  therefrom  !  One  consequence  has  already  been  a  de- 
gree of  Dapperism  and  Dilettanteism,  and  rickety  Debility, 
unexampled  in  the  history  of  Literature,  and  enough  of  itself 
to  make  us  '  the  envy  of  surrounding  nations ; '  for  hereby 
the  literary  man,  once  so  dangerous  to  the  quiescence  of  so- 
ciety, has  now  become  perfectly  innoxious,  so  that  a  look  will 
quail  him,  and  he  can  be  tied  hand  and  foot  by  a  spinster's 
thread.  Hope  there  is,  that  henceforth  neither  Church  nor 
State  will  be  put  in  jeopardy  by  Literature.  The  old  liter- 
ary man,  as  we  have  said,  stood  on  his  own  legs  ;  had  a 
whole  heart  within  him,  and  might  be  provoked  into  many 
things.  But  the  new  literary  man,  on  the  other  hand,  can- 
not stand  at  all,  save  in  stays ;  he  must  first  gird  up  his 
weak  sides  with  the  whalebone  of  a  certain  fashionable, 
knowing,  half-squirarchal  air,  —  be  it  inherited,  bought,  or, 
as  is  more  likely,  borrowed  or  stolen,  whalebone  ;  and  here- 
with he  stands  a  little  without  collapsing.  If  the  man  now 
twang  his  jew's-harp  to  please  the  children,  what  is  to  be 
feared  from  him  ;  what  more  is  to  be  required  of  him  ? 

Seriously  speaking,  we  must  hold  it  a  remarkable  thing 
that  every  Englishman  should  be  a  '  gentleman  ; '  that  in  so 
democratic  a  country,  our  common  title  of  honour,  which  all 
men  assert  for  themselves,  should  be  one  which  professedly 
depends  on  station,  on  accidents  rather  than  on  qualities  ;  or 
at  best,  as  Coleridge  interprets  it,  '  on  a  certain  indifference 
to  money  matters,'  which  certain  indifference  again  must  be 
wise  or  mad,  you  would  think,  exactly  as  one  possesses  much 
money,  or  possesses  little  !  We  suppose  it  must  be  the  com- 
mercial genius  of  the  nation,  counteracting  and  suppressing 
its  political  genius  ;  for  the  Americans  are  said  to  be  still 
more  notable  in  this  respect  than  we.  Now,  what  a  hollow, 
windy  vacuity  of  internal  character  this  indicates ;  how,  in 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDPJCH  RICHTER. 


199 


place  of  a  rightly  ordered  heart,  we  strive  only  to  exhibit  a 
full  purse ;  and  all  pushing,  rushing,  elbowing  on  towards  a 
false  aim,  the  courtier's  kibes  are  more  and  more  galled  by 
the  toe  of  the  peasant :  and  on  every  side,  instead  of  Faith, 
Hope  and  Charity,  we  have  Neediness,  Greediness  and  Vain- 
glory ;  all  this  is  palpable  enough.  Fools  that  we  are ! 
Why  should  Ave  wear  our  knees  to  horn,  and  sorrowfully 
beat  our  breasts,  praying  day  and  night  to  Mammon,  who, 
if  he  would  even  hear  us,  has  almost  nothing  to  give  ?  For, 
granting  that  the  deaf  brute-god  were  to  relent  for  our  sac- 
rificings  ;  to  change  our  gilt  brass  into  solid  gold,  and  instead 
of  hungry  actors  of  rich  gentility,  make  us  all  in  very  deed 
Rothschild-Howards  to-morrow,  what  good  were  it  ?  Are 
we  not  already  denizens  of  this  wondrous  England,  with  its 
high  Shakspeares  and  Hampdens ;  nay,  of  this  wondrous 
Universe,  with  its  Galaxies  and  Eternities,  and  unspeakable 
Splendours,  that  we  should  so  worry  and  scramble,  and  tear 
one  another  in  pieces,  for  some  acres  (nay,  still  oftener,  for 
the  show  of  some  acres),  more  or  less,  of  clay  property,  the 
largest  of  which  properties,  the  Sutherland  itself,  is  invisible 
even  from  the  Moon  ?  '  Fools  that  we  are  !  To  dig  and  bore 
like  ground-worms  in  those  acres  of  ours,  even  if  we  have 
acres  ;  and  far  from  beholding  and  enjoying  the  heavenly 
Lights,  not  to  know  of  them  except  by  unheeded  and  unbe- 
lieved  report !  Shall  certain  pounds  sterling  that  we  may 
have  in  the  Bank  of  England,  or  the  ghosts  of  certain  pounds 
that  we  would  fain  seem  to  have,  hide  from  us  the  treasures 
we  are  all  born  to  in  this  the  '  City  of  God  ? ' 

My  inheritance  how  wide  and  fair; 
Time  is  my  estate,  to  Time  I'm  heir ! 

But  leaving  the  money-changers,  and  honour-hunters,  and 
gigmen  of  every  degree,  to  their  own  wise  ways,  which  they 
will  not  alter,  we  must  again  remark  as  a  singular  circum- 
stance, that  the  same  spirit  should,  to  such  an  extent,  have 
taken  possession  of  Literature  also.  This  is  the  eye  of  the 
world  ;  enlightening  all,  and  instead  of  the  shows  of  things 


200 


MISCELLANIES. 


unfolding  to  us  things  themselves  :  has  the  eye  too  gone 
blind  ;  has  the  Poet  and  Thinker  adopted  the  philosophy  of 
the  Grocer  and  Valet  in  Livery  ?  Nay,  let  us  hear  Lord 
Byron  himself  on  the  subject.  Some  years  ago,  there  ap- 
peared in  the  Magazines,  and  to  the  admiration  of  most 
editorial  gentlemen,  certain  extracts  from  Letters  of  Lord 
Byron's,  which  carried  this  philosophy  to  rather  a  high 
pitch.  His  Lordship,  we  recollect,  mentioned,  that  '  all  rules 
for  Poetry  were  not  worth  a  d — n '  (saving  and  excepting, 
doubtless,  the  ancient  Rule-of-Thumb,  which  must  still  have 
place  here)  ;  after  which  aphorism,  his  Lordship  proceeded 
to  state  that  the  great  ruin  of  all  British  Poets  sprang  from 
a  simple  source  ;  their  exclusion  from  High  Life  in  London, 
excepting  only  some  shape  of  that  High  Life  below  Stairs, 
which,  however,  was  nowise  adequate :  he  himself  and 
Thomas  Moore  were  perfectly  familiar  in  such  upper  life  ; 
he  by  birth,  Moore  by  happy  accident,  and  so  they  could 
both  write  Poetry  ;  the  others  were  not  familial',  and  so 
could  not  write  it.  —  Surely  it  is  fast  growing  time  that  all 
this  should  be  drummed  out  of  our  Planet,  and  forbidden 
to  return. 

Richter,  for  his  part,  was  quite  excluded  from  the  West- 
end  of  Hof :  for  Hof  too  has  its  West-end  ;  '  every  mortal 
'longs  for  his  parade-place  ;  would  still  wish,  at  banquets,  to 
'  be  master  of  some  seat  or  other,  wherein  to  overtop  this  or 
'  that  plucked  goose  of  the  neighbourhood.'  So  poor  Richter 
could  only  be  admitted  to  the  West-end  of  the  Universe, 
where  truly  he  had  a  very  superior  establishment.  The 
legal,  clerical  and  other  conscript  fathers  of  Hof  might,  had 
they  so  inclined,  have  lent  him  a  few  books,  told  or  believed 
some  fewer  lies  of  him,  and  thus  positively  and  negatively 
shown  the  young  adventurer  many  a  little  service ;  but  they 
inclined  to  none  of  these  things,  and  happily  he  was  enabled 
to  do  without  them.  Gay,  gentle,  frolicsome  as  a  lamb,  yet 
strong,  forbearant  and  royally  courageous  as  a  lion,  he 
worked  along,  amid  the  scouring  of  kettles,  the  hissing  of 


JEAN  PAUL  FEIEDRICH  EICHTER. 


201 


frying-pans,  the  hum  of  his  mother's  wheel ;  —  and  it  is  not 
without  a  proud  feeling  that  our  reader  (for  he  too  is  a  man) 
hears  of  victory  being  at  last  gained,  and  of  Works,  which 
the  most  reflective  nation  in  Europe  regards  as  classical, 
being  written  under  such  accompaniments. 

However,  it  is  at  this  lowest  point  of  the  Narrative  that 
Herr  Otto  for  the  present  stops  short ;  leaving  us  only  the 
assurance  that  better  days  are  coming :  so  that  concerning 
the  whole  ascendant  and  dominant  portion  of  Richter's  his- 
tory, we  are  left  to  our  own  resources ;  and  from  these  we 
have  only  gathered  some  scanty  indications,  which  may  be 
summed  up  with  a  very  disproportionate  brevity.  It  appears 
that  the  Unsichtbare  Loge  (Invisible  Lodge),  sent  forth  from 
the  Hof  spinning-establishment  in  1793,  was  the  first  of  his 
works  that  obtained  any  decisive  favour.  A  long  trial  of 
faith  ;  for  the  man  had  now  been  besieging  the  literary  cita- 
del upwards  of  ten  years,  and  still  no  breach  visible  !  With 
the  appearance  of  Hesperus,  another  wondrous  Novel,  which 
proceeded  from  the  same  'single  apartment,'  in  1796,  the 
siege  may  be  said  to  have  terminated  by  storm ;  and  Jean 
Paul,  whom  the  most  knew  not  what  in  the  world  to  think 
of,  whom  here  and  there  a  man  of  weak  judgment  had  not 
even  scrupled  to  declare  half-mad,  made  it  universally  indu- 
bitable, that  though  encircled  with  dusky  vapours,  and  shin- 
ing out  only  in  strange  many-hued  irregular  bursts  of  flame, 
he  was  and  would  be  one  of  the  celestial  Luminaries  of  his 
day  and  generation.  The  keen  intellectual  energy  displayed 
in  Hesperus,  still  more  the  nobleness  of  mind,  the  sympathy 
with  Nature,  the  warm,  impetuous,  yet  pure  and  lofty  delin- 
eations of  Friendship  and  Love  ;  in  a  less  degree  perhaps, 
the  wild  boisterous  humour  that  everywhere  prevails  in  it, 
secured  Richter  not  only  admirers,  but  personal  well-wishers 
in  all  quarters  of  his  country.  Gleim,  for  example,  though 
then  eighty  years  of  age,  and  among  the  last  survivors  of  a 
quite  different  school,  could  not  contain  himself  with  rapture. 
'What  a  divine  genius  (Gottgenins),'  thus  wrote  he  some 


202 


MISCELLANIES. 


time  afterwards,  '  is  our  Friedrich  Eichter !  I  am  reading 
'  his  Blumenstuclce  for  the  second  time :  here  is  more  than 
'  Shakspeare,  said  I,  at  fifty  passages  I  have  marked.  What 
1  a  divine  genius  !  I  wonder  over  the  human  head,  out  of 
'  which  these  streams,  these  brooks,  these  Rhine-falls,  these 
4  Blandusian  fountains  pour  forth  over  human  nature  to  make 
'  human  nature  humane  ;  and  if  to-day  I  object  to  the  plan, 
'  object  to  phrases,  to  words,  I  am  contented  with  all  to-mor- 
*  row.'  The  kind  lively  old  man,  it  appears,  had  sent  him 
a  gay  letter,  signed  '  Septimus  Fixlein,'  with  a  present  of 
money  in  it ;  to  which  Richter,  with  great  heartiness,  and 
some  curiosity  to  penetrate  the  secret,  made  answer  in  this 
very  Blumenstuclce  ;  and  so  erelong  a  joyful  acquaintance  and 
friendship  was  formed  ;  Paul  had  visited  Halberstadt,  with 
warmest  welcome,  and  sat  for  his  picture  there  (an  oil  paint- 
ing by  Pfenninger),  which  is  still  to  be  seen  in  Gleim's 
Ehrentempel  (Temple  of  Honour).  About  this  epoch  too, 
the  Reviewing  world,  after  a  long  conscientious  silence,  again 
opened  its  thick  lips ;  and  in  quite  another  dialect ;  screech- 
ing out  a  rusty  Nunc  Domine  dimittas,  with  considerable 
force  of  pipe,  instead  of  its  last  monosyllabic  and  very  un- 
handsome grunt.  For  the  credit  of  our  own  guild,  we  could 
have  wished  that  the  Reviewing  world  had  struck  up  its 
Dimittas  a  little  sooner. 

In  1797,  the  Widow  Richter  was  taken  away  from  the 
strange  variable  climate  of  this  world,  —  we  shall  hope,  into 
a  sunnier  one ;  her  kettles  hung  unscoured  on  the  wall ;  and 
the  spool,  so  often  filled  with  her  cotton-thread  and  wetted 
with  her  tears,  revolved  no  more.  Poor  old  weather-beaten, 
heavy-laden  soul !  And  yet  a  light-beam  from  on  high  was 
in  her  also ;  and  the  '  twelve  shillings  for  Samuel's  new 
boots '  were  more  bounteous  and  more  blessed  than  many  a 
king's  ransom.  Nay,  she  saw  before  departing,  that  she, 
even  she,  had  born  a  mighty  man  ;  and  her  early  sunshine, 
long  drowned  in  deluges,  again  looked  out  at  evening  with 
sweet  farewell. 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


203 


The  Hof  household  being  thus  broken  up,  Richter  for 
some  years  led  a  wandering  life.  In  the  course  of  this  same 
1797,  we  find  him  once  more  in  Leipzig ;  and  truly  under 
far  other  circumstances  than  of  old.  For  instead  of  silk- 
stockinged,  shovel-hatted,  but  too  imperious  Magisters,  that 
would  not  let  him  occupy  his  own  hired  dog-hutch  in  peace, 
'  he  here,'  says  Heinrich  Doring,1  '  became  acquainted  with 
'  the  three  Princesses,  adorned  with  every  charm  of  person 
i  and  of  mind,  the  daughters  of  the  Duchess  of  Hildburg- 
'  hausen  !  The  Duke,  who  also  did  justice  to  his  extraordi- 
i  nary  merits,  conferred  on  him,  some  years  afterwards,  the 
'  title  of  Legationsrath  (Councillor  of  Legation).'  To  Prin- 
ces and  Princesses,  indeed,  Jean  Paul  seems,  ever  hence- 
forth, to  have  had  what  we  should  reckon  a  surprising  access. 
For  example :  — '  the  social  circles  where  the  Duchess  Ame- 
'  lia  (of  Weimar)  was  wont  to  assemble  the  most  talented 
'  men,  first,  in  Ettersburg,  afterwards  in  Tiefurt ; '  —  then 
the  '  Duke  of  Meinungen  at  Coburg,  who  had  with  pressing 
'  kindness  invited  him  ; '  —  the  Prince  Primate  Dalberg,  who 
did  much  more  than  invite  him;  —  late  in  life,  'the  gifted 
'  Duchess  Dorothea,  in  Lobichau,  of  which  visit  he  has  him- 
'  self  commemorated  the  festive  days,'  &c.  &c. ;  —  all  which 
small  matters,  it  appears  to  us,  should  be  taken  into  consid- 
eration by  that  class  of  British  philosophers,  troublesome  in 
many  an  intellectual  tea-circle,  who  deduce  the  '  German 
bad  taste '  from  our  own  old  everlasting  '  want  of  inter- 
course ; '  whereby,  if  it  so  seemed  good  to  them,  their  tea, 
till  some  less  self-evident  proposition  were  started,  might  be 
'  consumed  with  a  certain  stately  silence.' 

But  next  year  (1798)  there  came  on  Paul  a  far  grander 
piece  of  good  fortune  than  any  of  these  ;  namely,  a  good  wife  ; 
which,  as  Solomon  has  long  recorded,  is  a  '  good  thing.'  He 
had  gone  from  Leipzig  to  Berlin,  still  busily  writing ;  '  and 
*  during  a  longer  residence  in  this  latter  city,'  says  Doring, 

i  Leben  Jean  Pauls.    Gotha,  1826. 


204 


MISCELLANIES. 


'  Caroline  Mayer,  daughter  of  the  Royal  Prussian  Privy 
'  Councillor  and  Professor  of  Medicine,  Dr.  John  Andrew 
'  Mayer  '  (these  are  all  his  titles),  '  gave  him  her  hand  ;  nay 
'  even,'  continues  the  microscopic  Doring,  '  as  is  said  in  a 
'  public  paper,  bestowed  on  him  (aufdruckte)  the  bride-kiss 
'  of  her  own  accord.'  What  is  still  more  astonishing,  she  is 
recorded  to  have  been  a  '  chosen  one  of  her  sex,'  one  that, 
'  like  a  gentle,  guardian,  care-dispelling  genius,  went  by  his 
'  side  through  all  his  pilgrimage.' 

Shortly  after  this  great  event,  Paul  removed  with  his  new 
wife  to  Weimar,  where  he  seems  to  have  resided  some  years, 
in  high  favour  with  whatever  was  most  illustrious  in  that  city. 
His  first  impression  on  Schiller  is  characteristic  enough.  '  Of 
'  Hesperus,'  thus  writes  Schiller,  '  I  have  yet  made  no  mention 
'  to  you.  I  found  him  pretty  much  what  I  expected;  foreign 
'  like  a  man  fallen  from  the  Moon  ;  full  of  good-will,  and 
'  heartily  inclined  to  see  things  about  him,  but  without  the 
'  organ  for  seeing  them.  However,  I  have  only  spoken  to 
'  him  once,  and  so  I  can  say  little  of  him.' 1  In  answer 
to  which,  Goethe  also  expresses  his  love  for  Richter,  but 
'  doubts  whether  in  literary  practice  he  will  ever  fall-in 
with  them  two,  much  as  his  theoretical  creed  inclined  that 
way.'  Hesperus  proved  to  have  more  1  organ '  than  Schiller 
gave  him  credit  for  ;  nevertheless  Goethe's  doubt  had  not 
been  unfounded.  It  was  to  Herder  that  Paul  chiefly  attached 
himself  here  ;  esteeming  the  others  as  high-gifted,  friendly 
men,  but  only  Herder  as  a  teacher  and  spiritual  father ; 
of  which  latter  relation,  and  the  warm  love  and  gratitude 
accompanying  it  on  Paul's  side,  his  writings  give  frequent 
proof.  '  If  Herder  was  not  a  Poet,'  says  he  once,  '  he  was 
something  more,  —  a  Poem  ! '  With  Wieland  too  he  stood 
on  the  friendliest  footing,  often  walking  out  to  visit  him  at 
Osmanstadt,  whither  the  old  man  had  now  retired.  Perhaps 
these  years  spent  at  Weimar,  in  close  intercourse  with  so 

1  Briefwechsel  zwischen  Schiller  unci  Goethe  (Correspondence  between 
Schiller  and  Goethe),  b.  ii.  77. 


JEAN  PAUL  FEIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


205 


many  distinguished  persons,  were,  in  regard  to  outward  mat- 
ters, among  the  most  instructive  of  Richter's  life :  in  regard 
to  inward  matters,  he  had  already  served,  and  with  credit, 
a  hard  apprenticeship  elsewhere.  We  must  not  forget  to 
mention  that  Titan,  one  of  his  chief  romances  (published  at 
Berlin  in  1800),  was  written  during  his  abode  at  Weimar; 
so  likewise  the  Flegeljahre  (Wild  Oats)  ;  and  the  eulogy  of 
Charlotte  Corday,  which  last,  though  originally  but  a  Maga- 
zine Essay,  deserves  notice  for  its  bold  eloquence,  and  the 
antique  republican  spirit  manifested  in  it.  With  respect  to 
Titan,  which,  together  with  its  Comic  Appendix,  forms  six 
very  extraordinary  volumes,  Richter  was  accustomed,  on  all 
occasions,  to  declare  it  his  masterpiece,  and  even  the  best  he 
could  ever  hope  to  do  ;  though  there  are  not  wanting  readers 
who  continue  to  regard  Hesperus  with  preference.  For  our- 
selves, we  have  read  Titan  with  a  certain  disappointment, 
after  hearing  so  much  of  it ;  yet  on  the  whole  must  incline 
to  the  Author's  opinion.  One  day  we  hope  to  afford  the 
British  public  some  sketch  of  both  these  works,  concerning 
which,  it  has  been  said,  '  there  is  solid  metal  enough  in  them 
'  to  fit  out  whole  circulating  libraries,  were  it  beaten  into  the 
'  usual  filigree  ;  and  much  which,  attenuate  it  as  we  might,  no 
1  Quarterly  Subscriber  could  well  cany  with  him.'  Richter's 
other  Novels  published  prior  to  this  period  are,  the  Invisible 
Lodge  ;  the  Siebenkas  (or  Flower,  Fruit  and  Thorn  Pieces) ; 
the  Life  of  Quintus  Fixlein  ;  the  Jubelsenior  (Parson  in  Ju- 
bilee) :  Jean  PauVs  Letters  and  Future  History,  the  Dejeuner 
in  Kuhschnappel,  the  Biographical  Recreations  under  the 
Cranium  of  a  Giantess,  scarcely  belonging  to  this  species. 
The  Novels  published  afterwards,  which  we  may  as  well 
catalogue  here,  are,  the  Leben  Fibels  (Life  of  Fibel)  ;  Kat- 
zenbergers  Badereise  (Katzenberger's  Journey  to  the  Bath)  ; 
Schmelzles  Reise  nach  Fldtz  (Schmelzle's  Journey  to  Flatz)  ; 
the  Comet,  named  also  Nicholaus  Margraf 

It  seems  to  have  been  about  the  year  1802,  that  Paul  had 
a  pension  bestowed  upon  him  by  the  Fiirst  Primas  (Prince 


206 


MISCELLANIES. 


Primate)  von  Dalberg,  a  prelate  famed  for  his  munificence, 
whom  we  have  mentioned  above.  What  the  amount  was, 
we  do  not  find  specified,  but  only  that  it  '  secured  him  the 
means  of  a  comfortable  life,'  and  was  '  subsequently,'  we  sup- 
pose after  the  Prince  Primate's  decease,  '  paid  him  by  the 
King  of  Bavaria.'  On  the  strength  of  which  fixed  reve- 
nue, Paul  now  established  for  himself  a  fixed  household ; 
selecting  for  this  purpose,  after  various  intermediate  wan- 
derings, the  city  of  Bayreuth,  '  with  its  kind  picturesque  en- 
vironment ; '  where,  with  only  brief  occasional  excursions,  he 
continued  to  live  and  write.  We  have  heard  that  he  was  a 
man  universally  loved,  as  well  as  honoured  there  :  a  friendly, 
true  and  high-minded  man  ;  copious  in  speech,  which  was 
full  of  grave  genuine  humour ;  contented  with  simple  people 
and  simple  pleasures  ;  and  himself  of  the  simplest  habits 
and  wishes.  He  had  three  children  ;  and  a  guardian  angel, 
doubtless  not  without  her  flaws,  yet  a  reasonable  angel  not- 
withstanding. For  a  man  with  such  obdured  Stoicism,  like 
triple  steel,  round  his  breast ;  and  of  such  gentle,  deep-lying, 
ever-living  springs  of  Love  within  it,  —  all  this  may  well 
have  made  a  happy  life.  Besides,  Paul  was  of  exemplary, 
unwearied  diligence  in  his  vocation  ;  and  so  had,  at  all  times, 
fc  perennial,  fire-proof  Joys,  namely  Employments.'  In  addi- 
tion to  the  latter  part  of  the  Novels  named  above,  which, 
with  the  others,  as  all  of  them  are  more  or  less  genuine  poet- 
ical productions,  we  feel  reluctant  to  designate  even  tran- 
siently by  so  despicable  an  English  word,  —  his  philosophi- 
cal and  critical  performances,  especially  the  Vorsckule  der 
Aesthetik  (Introduction  to  ^Esthetics),  and  the  Levana  (Doc- 
trine of  Education),  belong  wholly  to  Bayreuth ;  not  to 
enumerate  a  multitude  of  miscellaneous  writings  (on  moral, 
literary,  scientific  subjects,  but  always  in  a  humorous,  fan- 
tastic, poetic  dress),  which  of  themselves  might  have  made 
the  fortune  of  no  mean  man.  His  heart  and  conscience,  as 
well  as  his  head  and  hand,  were  in  the  work  ;  from  which  no 
temptation  could  withdraw  him.    '  I  hold  my  duty,'  says  he 


JEAX  PAUL  FEIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


207 


in  these  Biographical  rNbtes,  1  not  to  lie  in  enjoying  or  aequir- 
'  ing,  but  in  writing,  —  whatever  time  it  may  cost,  whatever 
'  money  may  be  forborne,  —  nay  whatever  pleasure  ;  for  ex- 
'  ample,  that  of  seeing  Switzerland,  which  nothing  but  the 
1  sacrifice  of  time  forbids.'  — '  I  deny  myself  my  evening 
'  meal  (  Vesperessen)  in  my  eagerness  to  work ;  but  the  in- 
'  terruptions  by  my  children  I  cannot  deny  myself.'  And 
again  :  '  A  Poet,  who  presumes  to  give  poetic  delight,  should 
'  contemn  and  willingly  forbear  all  enjoyments,  the  sacrifice 
'  of  which  affects  not  his  creative  powers ;  that  so  he  may 
'  perhaps  delight  a  century  and  a  whole  people.'  In  Bich- 
ter's  advanced  years,  it  was  happy  for  him  that  he  could  say : 
!  When  I  look  at  what  has  been  made  out  of  me,  I  must 
f  thank  God  that  I  paid  no  heed  to  external  matters,  neither 
'  to  time  nor  toil,  nor  profit  nor  loss  ;  the  thing  is  there,  and 
1  the  instruments  that  did  it  I  have  forgotten,  and  none  else 

•  knows  them.    In  this  wise  has  the  unimportant  sez-ies  of 

•  moments  been  changed  into  something  higher  that  remains.' 
— '  I  have  described  so  much,'  says  he  elsewhere,  '  and  I  die 

•  without  ever  having  seen  Switzerland,  and  the  Ocean,  and 

•  so  many  other  sights.  But  the  Ocean  of  Eternity  I  shall  in 
1  no  case  fail  to  see.' 

A  heavy  stroke  fell  on  him  in  the  year  1821,  when  his 
only  son,  a  young  man  of  great  promise,  died  at  the  Uni- 
versity. Eaul  lost  not  his  composure ;  but  was  deeply,  in- 
curably wounded.  '  Epistolary  lamentations  on  my  misfor- 
'  tune,'  says  he,  '  I  read  unmoved,  for  the  bitterest  is  to  be 

•  heard  within  myself,  and  I  must  shut  the  ears  of  my  soul  to 

•  it ;  but  a  single  new  trait  of  Max's  fair  nature  opens  the 

•  whole  lacerated  heart  asunder  again,  and  it  can  only  drive 

•  its  blood  into  the  eyes.'  New  personal  sufferings  awaited 
him :  a  decay  of  health,  and  what  to  so  indefatigable  a  reader 
and  writer  was  still  worse,  a  decay  of  eyesight,  increasing  at 
last  to  almost  total  blindness.  This  too  he  bore  wTith  his  old 
stedfastness,  cheerfully  seeking  what  help  was  to  be  had ; 
and  when  no  hope  of  help  remained,  still  cheerfully  labour- 


208 


MISCELLANIES. 


ing  at  his  vocation,  though  in  sickness  and  in  blindness.1 
Dark  without,  he  was  inwardly  full  of  light ;  busied  on  his 
favourite  theme,  the  Immortality  of  the  Soul ;  when  (on  the 
14th  of  November  1825)  Death  came,  and  Paul's  work  was 
all  accomplished,  and  that  great  question  settled  for  him  on 
far  higher  and  indisputable  evidence.  The  unfinished  Volume 
(which  under  the  title  of  Selina  we  now  have)  was  carried 
on  his  bier  to  the  grave  ;  for  his  funeral  was  public,  and  in 
Bayreuth,  and  elsewhere,  all  possible  honour  was  done  to  his 
memory. 

In  regard  to  Paul's  character  as  a  man  we  have  little  to 
say,  beyond  what  the  facts  of  this  Narrative  have  already 
said  more  plainly  than  in  words.  We  learn  from  all  quarters, 
in  one  or  the  other  dialect,  that  the  pure  high  morality  which 
adorns  his  writings,  stamped  itself  also  on  his  life  and  actions. 
1  He  was  a  tender  husband  and  father,'  says  Doring,  '  and 
'  goodness  itself  towards  his  friends  and  all  that  was  near 
'  him.'  The  significance  of  such  a  spirit  as  Richter's,  practi- 
cally manifested  in  such  a  life,  is  deep  and  manifold,  and  at 
this  era  will  merit  careful  study.  For  the  present,  however, 
we  must  leave  it,  in  this  degree  of  clearness,  to  the  reader's 
own  consideration  ;  another  and  still  more  immediately  need- 
ful department  of  our  task  still  remains  for  us. 

Richter's  intellectual  and  Literary  character  is,  perhaps,  in 
a  singular  degree  the  counterpart  and  image  of  his  practical 
and  moral  character:  his  Works  seem  to  us  a  more  than 
usually  faithful  transcript  of  his  mind  ;  written  with  great 
warmth  direct  from  the  heart,  and  like  himself,  wild,  strong, 
original,  sincere.     Viewed  under  any  aspect,  whether  as 

i  He  begins  a  letter  applying  for  spectacles  (August  1824)  in  these 
terms: — '  Since  last  winter,  my  eyes  (the  left  had  already,  without  cata- 
'ract,  been  long  half-blind,  and,  like  Reviewers  and  Litterateurs,  read 
'nothing  but  title-pages)  have  been  seized  by  a  daily  increasing  Night- 
'  Ultra  and  Enemy-to-Light,  who,  did  I  not  withstand  him,  would  shortly 
'drive  me  into  the  Orcus  of  Amaurosis.  Then,  Addio,  opera  omnia  ! ' — 
Doring,  32. 


JEAN  PAUL  FPJEDRICH  EICHTEE. 


209 


Thinker,  Moralist,  Satirist,  Poet,  he  is  a  phenomenon ;  a 
vast,  many-sided,  tumultuous,  yet  noble  nature  ;  for  faults  as 
for  merits,  '  Jean  Paul  the  Unique.'  In  all  departments,  we 
find  in  him  a  subduing  force ;  but  a  lawless,  untutored,  as  it 
were  half-savage  force.  Thus,  for  example,  few  understand- 
ings known  to  us  are  of  a  more  irresistible  character  than 
Ptichter's;  but  its  strength  is  a  natural,  unarmed,  Orson-like 
strength :  he  does  not  cunningly  undermine  his  subject,  and 
lay  it  open,  by  syllogistic  implements  or  any  rule  of  art ;  but 
he  crushes  it  to  pieces  in  his  arms,  he  treads  it  asunder,  not 
without  gay  triumph,  under  his  feet ;  and  so  in  almost  mon- 
strous fashion,  yet  with  piercing  clearness,  lays  bare  the  in- 
most heart  and  core  of  it  to  all  eyes.  In  passion  again,  there 
is  the  same  wild  vehemence  :  it  is  a  voice  of  softest  pity,  of 
endless  boundless  wailing,  a  voice  as  of  Rachel  weeping  for 
her  children  ;  —  or  the  fierce  bellowing  of  lions  amid  savage 
forests.  Thus  too,  he  not  only  loves  Nature,  but  he  revels 
in  her ;  plunges  into  her  infinite  bosom,  and  fills  his  whole 
heart  to  intoxication  with  her  charms.  He  tells  us  that  he 
was  wont  to  study,  to  write,  almost  to  live,  in  the  open  air ; 
and  no  skyey  aspect  was  so  dismal  that  it  altogether  wanted 
beauty  for  him.  We  know  of  no  Poet  with  so  deep  and 
passionate  and  universal  a  feeling  towards  Nature  :  '  from 
'  the  solemn  phases  of  the  starry  heaven  to  the  simple 
'  floweret  of  the  meadow,  his  eye  and  his  heart  are  open  for 
'  her  charms  and  her  mystic  meanings.'  But  what  most  of  all 
shadows  forth  the  inborn,  essential  temper  of  Paul's  mind,  is 
the  sportfulness,  the  wild  heartfelt  Humour,  which,  in  his 
highest  as  in  his  lowest  moods,  ever  exhibits  itself  as  a  quite 
inseparable  ingredient.  His  Humour,  with  all  its  wildness,  is 
of  the  gravest  and  kindliest,  a  genuine  Humour  ;  '  consistent 
with  utmost  earnestness,  or  rather,  inconsistent  with  the  want 
of  it.'  But  on  the  whole,  it  is  impossible  for  him  to  write  in 
other  than  a  humorous  manner,  be  his  subject  what  it  may. 
His  Philosophical  Treatises,  nay,  as  we  have  seen,  his  Auto- 
biography itself,  everything  that  comes  from  him,  is  encased 

VOL.  II.  14 


210 


MISCELLANIES. 


in  some  quaint  fantastic  framing  ;  and  roguish  eyes  (yet  with 
a  strange  sympathy  in  the  matter,  for  his  Humour,  as  we 
said,  is  heartfelt  and  true)  look  out  on  us  through  many  a 
grave  delineation.  In  his  Novels,  above  all,  this  is  ever  an 
indispensable  quality,  and,  indeed,  announces  itself  in  the 
very  entrance  of  the  business,  often  even  on  the  title-page. 
Think,  for  instance,  of  that  Selection  from  the  Papers  of  the 
Devil ;  Hesperus,  OR  the  Dog-post-days  ;  Siebenkas's  Wed- 
ded-life, Death  and  Nuptials/ 

'The  first  aspect  of  these  peculiarities,'  says  one  of  Pichter's  Eng- 
lish critics,  'cannot  prepossess  us  in  his  favour;  we  are  too  forcibly 
reminded  of  theatrical  clap-traps  and  literary  quackery  :  nor  on  open- 
ing one  of  the  works  themselves  is  the  case  much  mended.  Piercing 
gleams  of  thought  do  not  escape  us ;  singular  truths,  conveyed  in  a 
form  as  singular  ;  grotesque,  and  often  truly  ludicrous  delineations  ; 
pathetic,  magnificent,  tar-sounding  passages;  effusions  full  of  wit, 
knowledge  and  imagination,  but  difficult  to  bring  under  any  rubric 
whatever ;  all  the  elements,  in  short,  of  a  glorious  intellect,  but 
dashed  together  in  such  wild  arrangement,  that  their  order  seems  the 
very  ideal  of  confusion.  The  style  and  structure  of  the  book  appear 
alike  incomprehensible.  The  narrative  is  every  now  and  then  sus- 
pended, to  make  way  for  some  "  Extra-leaf,"  some  wild  digression 
upon  any  subject  but  the  one  in  hand ;  the  language  groans  with 
indescribable  metaphors,  and  allusions  to  all  things  human  and  di- 
vine :  flowing  onward,  not  like  a  river,  but  like  an  inundation  ; 
circling  in  complex  eddies,  chafing  and  gurgling,  now  this  way,  now 
that,  till  the  proper  current  sinks  out  of  view  amid  the  boundless 
uproar.  We  close  the  work  with  a  mingled  feeling  of  astonishment, 
oppression  and  perplexity ;  and  Ilichter  stands  before  us  in  brilliant 
cloudy  vagueness,  a  giant  mass  of  intellect,  but  without  form,  beauty 
or  intelligible  purpose. 

'  To  readers  who  believe  that  intrinsic  is  inseparable  from  super- 
ficial excellence,  and  that  nothing  can  be  good  or  beautiful  which  is 
not  to  be  seen  through  in  a  moment,  Ilichter  can  occasion  little  diffi- 
culty. They  admit  him  to  be  a  man  of  vast  natural  endowments, 
but  he  is  utterly  uncultivated,  and  without  command  of  them ;  full 
of  monstrous  affectation,  the  very  high-priest  of  Bad  Taste ;  knows 
not  the  art  of  writing,  scarcely  that  there  is  such  an  art ;  an  insane 
visionary,  floating  forever  among  baseless  dreams  that  hide  the  firm 
earth  from  his  view  ;  an  intellectual  Polyphemus,  in  short,  a  mon- 
strum  horvendum,  informe,  inrjcus,  (carefully  adding)  cui  lumen  ademptum  ; 


JEAN  PAUL  FEIEDEICH  EICHTER. 


211 


and  they  close  their  Verdict  reflectively  with  his  own  praiseworthy 
maxim  :  "  Providence  has  given  to  the  English  the  empire  of  the 
sea,  to  the  French  that  of  the  land,  to  the  Germans  that  of — the 
air." 

'  In  this  way  the  matter  is  adjusted ;  hriefly,  comfortably  and 
wrong.  The  casket  was  difficult  to  open  :  did  we  know,  by  its  very 
shape,  that  there  was  nothing  in  it,  that  so  we  should  cast  it  into  the 
sea  ?  Affectation  is  often  singularity,  hut  singularity  is  not  always 
affectation.  If  the  nature  and  condition  of  a  man  be  really  and 
truly,  not  conceitedly  and  untruly,  singular,  so  also  will  his  manner 
be,  so  also  ought  it  to  be.  Affectation  is  the  product  of  Falsehood,  a 
heavy  sin,  and  the  parent  of  numerous  heavy  sins  ;  let  it  be  severely 
punished,  but  not  too  lightly  imputed.  Scarcely  any  mortal  is  abso- 
lutely free  from  it.  neither  most  probably  is  Richter;  but  it  is  in  minds 
of  another  substance  than  his  that  it  grows  to  be  the  ruling  product. 
Moreover,  he  is  actually  not  a  visionary ;  but,  with  all  his  visions, 
will  be  found  to  see  the  firm  Earth,  in  its  Avhole  figures  and  relations, 
much  more  clearly  than  thousands  of  such  critics,  who  too  probably 
can  see  nothing  else.  Far  from  being  untrained  or  uncultivated,  it 
will  surprise  these  persons  to  discover  that  few  men  have  studied  the 
art  of  writing,  and  many  other  arts  besides,  more  carefully  than  he ; 
that  his  Vorschule  der  Aesthetik  abounds  with  deep  and  sound  maxims 
of  criticism ;  in  the  course  of  which,  many  complex  works,  his  own 
among  others,  are  rigidly  and  justly  tried,  and  even  the  graces  and 
minutest  qualities  of  style  are  by  no  means  overlooked  or  unwisely 
handled. 

'  Withal,  there  is  something  in  Richter  that  incites  us  to  a  second, 
to  a  third  perusal.  His  works  are  hard  to  understand,  but  they  al- 
ways have  a  meaning,  often  a  true  and  deep  one.  In  our  closer,  more 
comprehensive  glance,  their  truth  steps  forth  with  new  distinctness, 
their  error  dissipates  and  recedes,  passes  into  veniality,  often  even 
into  beauty  ;  and  at  last  the  thick  haze  which  encircled  the  form  of 
the  writer  melts  away,  and  he  stands  revealed  to  us  in  his  own  sted- 
fast  features,  a  colossal  spirit,  a  lofty  and  original  thinker,  a  genuine 
poet,  a  high-minded,  true  and  most  amiable  man. 

'  I  have  called  him  a  colossal  spirit,  for  this  impression  continues 
with  us  :  to  the  last  we  figure  him  as  something  gigantic :  for  all  the 
elements  of  his  structure  are  vast,  and  combined  together  in  living 
and  life-giving,  rather  than  in  beautiful  or  symmetrical  order.  His 
Intellect  is  keen,  impetuous,  far-grasping,  fit  to  rend  in  pieces  the 
stubbornest  materials,  and  extort  from  them  their  most  hidden  and 
refractory  truth.  In  his  Humour  he  sports  with  the  highest  and  the 
lowest,  he  can  play  at  bowls  with  the  Sun  and  Moon.  His  Imagina- 
tion opens  for  us  the  Land  of  Dreams ;  we  sail  with  him  through  the 


212 


MISCELLANIES. 


boundless  Abyss  ;  and  the  secrets  of  Space,  and  Time,  and  Life,  and 
Annihilation,  hover  round  us  in  dim,  cloudy  forms  ;  and  darkness, 
and  immensity,  and  dread  encompass  and  overshadow  us.  Nay,  in 
handling  the  smallest  matter,  he  works  it  with  the  tools  of  a  giant. 
A  common  truth  is  wrenched  from  its  old  combinations,  and  pre- 
sented to  us  in  new,  impassable,  abysmal  contrast  with  its  opposite 
error.  A  trifle,  some  slender  character,  some  jest,  or  quip,  or  spirit- 
ual toy,  is  shaped  into  most  quaint,  yet  often  truly  living  form  ;  but 
shaped  somehow  as  with  the  hammer  of  Vulcan,  with  three  strokes 
that  might  have  helped  to  forge  an  iEgis.  The  treasures  of  his 
mind  are  of  a  similar  description  with  the  mind  itself;  his  knowledge 
is  gathered  from  all  the  kingdoms  of  Art,  and  Science,  and  Nature, 
and  lies  round  him  in  huge  unwieldy  heaps.  His  very  language  is 
Titanian ;  deep,  strong,  tumultuous ;  shining  with  a  thousand  hues, 
fused  from  a  thousand  elements,  and  winding  in  labyrinthic  mazes. 

'  Among  Richter's  gifts,'  continues  this  critic,  '  the  first  that  strikes 
us  as  truly  great  is  his  Imagination ;  for  he  loves  to  dwell  in  the 
loftiest  and  most  solemn  provinces  of  thought:  his  works  abound 
with  mysterious  allegories,  visions  and  typical  adumbrations ;  his 
Dreams,  in  particular,  have  a  gloomy  vastness,  broken  here  and 
there  by  wild  far-darting  splendour  ;  and  shadowy  forms  of  meaning 
rise  dimly  from  the  bosom  of  the  void  Infinite.  Yet,  if  I  mistake 
not,  Humour  is  his  ruling  quality,  the  quality  which  lives  most 
deeply  in  his  inward  nature,  and  most  strongly  influences  his  man- 
ner of  being.  In  this  rare  gift,  for  none  is  rarer  than  true  Humour, 
he  stands  unrivalled  in  his  own  country,  and  among  late  writers  in 
every  other.  To  describe  Humour  is  difficult  at  all  times,  and  would 
perhaps  be  more  than  usually  difficult  in  Richter's  case.  Like  all 
his  other  qualities,  it  is  vast,  rude,  irregular ;  often  perhaps  over- 
strained and  extravagant ;  yet,  fundamentally,  it  is  genuine  Humour, 
the  Humour  of  Cervantes  and  Sterne ;  the  product  not  of  Contempt, 
but  of  Love,  not  of  superficial  distortion  of  natural  forms,  but  of 
deep  though  playful  sympathy  with  all  forms  of  Nature.       *  * 

'  So  long  as  Humour  will  avail  him,  his  management  even  of 
higher  and  stronger  characters  may  still  be  pronounced  successful ; 
but  wherever  Humour  ceases  to  be  applicable,  his  success  is  more  or 
less  imperfect.  In  the  treatment  of  heroes  proper  he  is  seldom  com- 
pletely happy.  They  shoot  into  rugged  exaggeration  in  his  hands  ; 
their  sensibility  becomes  too  copious  and  tearful,  their  magnanimity 
too  fierce,  abrupt  and  thorough-going.  In  some  few  instances,  they 
verge  towards  absolute  failure  :  compared  with  their  less  ambitious 
brethren,  they  are  almost  of  a  vulgar  cast ;  with  all  their  brilliancy 
and  vigour,  too  like  that  positive,  determinate,  volcanic  class  of  per- 
sonages whom  we  meet  with  so  frequently  in  Novels  ;  they  call 


JEAN  PAUL  FR1EDRICH  RICHTER. 


213 


themselves  Men,  and  do  their  utmost  to  prove  the  assertion,  but  they 
cannot  make  us  believe  it ;  for,  after  all  their  vapouring  and  storm- 
ing, we  see  well  enough  that  they  are  but  Engines,  with  no  more 
life  than  the  Freethinkers'  model  in  Martinus  Scriblerus,  the  Nurem- 
berg Man,  who  operated  by  a  combination  of  pipes  and  levers,  and 
though  he  could  breathe  and  digest  perfectly,  and  even  reason  as  well 
as  most  country  parsons,  was  made  of  wood  and  leather.  In  the 
general  conduct  of  such  histories  and  delineations,  Richter  seldom 
appears  to  advantage  :  the  incidents  are  often  startling  and  extrava- 
gant ;  the  whole  structure  of  the  story  has  a  rugged,  broken,  huge, 
artificial  aspect,  and  will  not  assume  the  air  of  truth.  Yet  its  chasms 
are  strangely  filled  up  with  the  costliest  materials ;  a  world,  a  uni- 
verse of  wit,  and  knowledge,  and  fancy,  and  imagination  has  sent  its 
fairest  products  to  adorn  the  edifice ;  the  rude  and  rent  Cyclopean 
walls  are  resplendent  with  jewels  and  beaten  gold ;  rich  stately 
foliage  screens  it,  the  balmiest  odours  encircle  it;  we  stand  aston- 
ished if  not  captivated,  delighted  if  not  charmed,  by  the  artist  and 
his  art.' 

With  these  views,  so  far  as  they  go,  we  see  little  reason 
to  disagree.  There  is  doubtless  a  deeper  meaning  in  the 
matter,  but  perhaps  this  is  not  the  season  for  evolving  it. 
To  depict,  with  true  scientific  accuracy,  the  essential  purport 
and  character  of  Richter's  genius  and  literary  endeavour ; 
how  it  originated,  whither  it  tends,  how  it  stands  related  to 
the  general  tendencies  of  the  world  in  this  age  ;  above  all, 
what  is  its  worth  and  want  of  worth  to  ourselves,  —  may 
one  day  be  a  necessary  problem  ;  but,  as  matters  actually 
stand,  would  be  a  difficult  and  no  very  profitable  one.  The 
English  public  has  not  yet  seen  Richter ;  and  must  know 
him  before  it  can  judge  him.  For  us,  in  the  present  cir- 
cumstances, we  hold  it  a  more  promising  plan  to  exhibit 
some  specimens  of  his  workmanship  itself,  than  to  attempt 
describing  it  anew  or  better.  The  general  outline  of  his 
intellectual  aspect,  as  sketched  in  few  words  by  the  writer 
already  quoted,  may  stand  here  by  way  of  preface  to  these 
Extracts  :  as  was  the  case  above,  whatever  it  may  want,  it 
contains  nothing  that  we  dissent  from. 

'  To  characterise  Jean  Paul's  Works,'  says  he,  '  would  be  difficult 
after  the  fullest  inspection  :  to  describe  them  to  English  readers 


214 


MISCELLANIES. 


would  be  next  to  impossible.  Whether  poetical,  philosophical,  di- 
dactic, fantastic,  they  seem  all  to  be  emblems,  more  or  less  complete, 
of  the  singular  mind  where  they  originated.  As  a  whole,  the  first 
perusal  of  them,  more  particularly  to  a  foreigner,  is  almost  infallibly 
offensive  ;  and  neitber  their  meaning  nor  their  no-meaning  is  to  be 
discerned  without  long  and  sedulous  study.  They  are  a  tropical 
■wilderness,  full  of  endless  tortuosities  ;  but  with  the  fairest  flowers 
and  the  coolest  fountains ;  now  overarching  lis  with  high  umbrageous 
gloom,  now  opening  in  long  gorgeous  vistas.  We  wander  through 
them,  enjoying  their  wild  grandeur;  and,  by  degrees,  our  half-con- 
temptuous wonder  at  the  Author  passes  into  reverence  and  love.  His 
face  was  long  hid  from  us ;  but  we  see  him,  at  length,  in  the  firm 
shape  of  spiritual  manhood ;  a  vast  and  most  singular  nature,  but 
vindicating  his  singular  nature  by  the  force,  the  beauty  and  benignity 
which  pervade  it.  In  fine,  we  joyfully  accept  him  for  what  he  is  and 
was  meant  to  be.  The  graces,  the  polish,  the  sprightly  elegancies, 
which  belong  to  men  of  lighter  make,  we  cannot  look  for  or  demand 
from  him.  His  movement  is  essentially  slow  and  cumbrous,  for  he 
advances  not  with  one  faculty,  but  with  a  whole  mind ;  with  intel- 
lect, and  pathos,  and  wit,  and  humour,  and  imagination,  moving 
onward  like  a  mighty  host,  motley,  ponderous,  irregular,  irresistible. 
He  is  not  airy,  sparkling  and  precise  ;  but  deep,  billowy  and  vast. 
The  melody  of  his  nature  is  not  expressed  in  common  note-marks, 
or  written  down  by  the  critical  gamut :  for  it  is  wild  and  manifold  ; 
its  voice  is  like  the  voice  of  cataracts,  and  the  sounding  of  primeval 
forests.  To  feeble  ears  it  is  discord  ;  but  to  ears  that  understand  it, 
deep  majestic  music' 1 

As  our  first  specimen,  which  also  may  serve  for  proof 
that  Richter,  in  adopting  his  own  extraordinary  style,  did 
it  with  clear  knowledge  of  what  excellence  in  style,  and 
the  various  kinds  and  degrees  of  excellence  therein,  prop- 
erly signified,  we  select,  from  his  Vorschule  der  Aesthetic 
(above  mentioned  and  recommended),  the  following  minia- 
ture sketches  :  the  reader  acquainted  with  the  persons,  will 
find  these  sentences,  as  we  believe,  strikingly  descriptive  and 
exact. 

'  Visit  Herder's  creations,  where  Greek  life-freshness,  and  Hindoo 
life-weariness  are  wonderfully  blended  :  you  walk,  as  it  were,  amid 


1  German  Romance,  iii.  6,  18.  Supra,  Appendix,  §  Richter. 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  EICHTER. 


215 


moonshine,  into  -which -the  red  dawn  is  already  falling;  but  one  hid- 
den sun  is  the  painter  of  both.' 

'  Similar,  but  more  compacted  into  periods,  is  Friedrich  Heinrich 
Jacobi's  vigorous,  German-hearted  prose  ;  musical  in  every  sense, 
for  even  his  images  are  often  derived  from  tones.  The  rare  union 
between  cutting  force  of  intellectual  utterance,  and  infinitude  of  sen- 
timent, gives  us  the  tense  metallic  chord  with  its  soft  tones.' 

'In  Goethe's  prose,  on  the  other  hand,  his  fixedness  of  form  gives 
us  the  Memnon's-tone.  A  plastic  rounding,  a  pictorial  determinate- 
ness,  which  even  betrays  the  manual  artist,  make  his  works  a  fixed 
still  gallery  of  figures  and  bronze  statues.' 

'  Luther's  prose  is  a  half-battle  ;  few  deeds  are  equal  to  his  words.' 

'  Klopstock's  prose  frequently  evinces  a  sharpness  of  diction  bor- 
dering on  poverty  of  matter ;  a  quality  peculiar  to  Grammarians, 
who  most  of  all  know  distinctly,  but  least  of  all  know  much.  From 
want  of  matter,  one  is  apt  to  think  too  much  of  language.  New 
views  of  the  world,  like  these  other  poets,  Klopstock  scarcely  gave. 
Hence  the  naked  winter-boughs,  in  his  prose;  the  multitude  of 
circumscribed  propositions  j  the  brevity  ;  the  return  of  the  same 
small  sharp-cut  figures,  for  instance,  of  the  Eesurrection,  as  of  a 
Harvest-field.' 

'  The  perfection  of  pomp-prose  we  find  in  Schiller :  what  the  ut- 
most splendour  of  reflection  in  images,  in  fulness  and  antithesis  can 
give,  he  gives.  Nay,  often  he  plays  on  the  poetic  strings  with  so 
rich  and  jewel-loaded  a  hand,  that  the  sparkling  mass  disturbs,  if 
not  the  playing,  yet  our  hearing  of  it.' 1 

That  Richter's  own  playing  and  painting  differed  widely 
from  all  of  these,  the  reader  has  already  heard,  and  may 
now  convince  himself.  Take,  for  example,  the  following 
of  a  fair-weather  scene,  selected  from  a  thousand  such  that 
may  be  found  in  his  writings  ;  nowise  as  the  best,  but  sim- 
ply as  the  briefest.  It  is  in  the  May  season,  the  last  evening 
of  Spring : 

'  Such  a  May  as  the  present  (of  1794)  Nature  has  not  in  the  mem- 
ory of  man  —  begun ;  for  this  is  but  the  fifteenth  of  it.  People  of 
reflection  have  long  been  vexed  once  every  year,  that  our  German 
singers  should  indite  May-songs,  since  several  other  months  deserve 
such  a  poetical  Night-music  better  ;  and  I  myself  have  often  gone  so 
far  as  to  adopt  the  idiom  of  our  market-women,  and  instead  of  May 
butter  to  say  June  butter,  as  also  June,  March,  April  songs.  But 
1  Vorschule,  s.  545. 


216 


MISCELLANIES. 


thou,  kind  May  of  this  year,  thou  deservest  to  thyself  all  the  songs 
-which  were  ever  made  on  thy  rude  namesakes  !  —  By  Heaven  !  when 
I  now  issue  from  the  wavering  chequered  acacia-grove  of  the  Castle, 
in  which  I  am  -writing  this  Chapter,  and  come  forth  into  the  broad 
living  light,  and  look  up  to  the  warming  Heaven,  and  over  its  Earth 
budding  out  beneath  it,  —  the  Spring  rises  before  me  like  a  vast  full 
cloud,  with  a  splendour  of  blue  and  green.  I  see  the  Sun  standing 
amid  roses  in  the  western  sky,  into  which  he  has  thrown  his  ray-brush 
wherewith  he  has  to-day  been  painting  the  Earth ;  —  and  when  I  look 
round  a  little  in  our  picture-exhibition,  —  his  enamelling  is  still  hot 
on  the  mountains  ;  on  the  moist  chalk  of  the  moist  earth,  the  flowers, 
full  of  sap-colours,  are  laid  out  to  dry,  and  the  forget-me-not,  with 
miniature  colours ;  under  the  varnish  of  the  streams  the  skyey 
Painter  has  pencilled  his  own  eye ;  and  the  clouds,  like  a  decora- 
tion-painter, he  has  touched-off  with  wild  outlines  and  single  tints  ; 
and  so  he  stands  at  the  border  of  the  Earth,  and  looks  back  on  his 
stately  Spring,  whose  robe-folds  are  valleys,  whose  breast-bouquet 
is  gardens,  and  whose  blush  is  a  vernal  evening,  and  who,  when  she 
arises,  will  be  —  Summer  ! ' 1 

Or  the  following,  in  which,  moreover,  are  two  happy  living 
figures,  a  bridegroom  and  a  bride  on  their  marriage-day  : 

'  He  led  her  from  the  crowded  dancing-room  into  the  cool  evening. 
Why  does  the  evening,  does  the  night,  put  warmer  love  in  our 
hearts  ?  Is  it  the  nightly  pressure  of  helplessness ;  or  is  it  the 
exalting  separation  from  the  turmoils  of  life,  that  veiling  of  the 
world,  in  which  for  the  soul  nothing  then  remains  but  souls:  —  is 
it  therefore  that  the  letters  in  which  the  loved  name  stands  written 
on  our  spirit,  appear,  like  phosphorus  writing,  by  night,  on  fire,  while 
by  day  in  their  cloudy  traces  they  but  smoke  ? 

'  He  walked  with  his  bride  into  the  Castlc-garden  :  she  hastened 
quickly  through  the  Castle,  and  past  its  servants'-hall,  where  the  fair 
flowers  of  her  young  life  had  been  crushed  broad  and  dry,  under  a 
long  dreary  pressure ;  and  her  soul  expanded,  and  breathed  in  the 
free  open  garden,  on  whose  flowery  soil  Destiny  had  cast  forth  the 
first  seeds  of  the  blossoms  which  to-day  were  gladdening  her  exist- 
ence. Still  Eden  !  Green,  flower-chequered  cluaroscuro  '. —  The  moon 
is  sleeping  under  ground,  like  a  dead  one  ;  but  beyond  the  garden, 
the  sun's  red  evening-clouds  have  fallen  down  like  rose-leaves  ;  and 
the  evening-star,  the  brideman  of  the  sun,  hovers  like  a  glancing 
butterfly  above  the  rosy  red,  and,  modest  as  a  bride,  deprives  no  sin- 
gle starlet  of  its  light.' 

1  Fiu-k'in,  z.  11. 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  EICHTER. 


217 


'  The  wandering  pair'arrived  at  the  old  gardener's-hut ;  now  stand- 
ing locked  and  dumb,  with  dark  windows  in  the  light  garden,  like  a 
fragment  of  the  Past  surviving  in  the  Present.  Bared  twigs  of  trees 
were  folding,  with  clammy  half-formed  leaves,  over  the  thick  inter- 
twisted tangles  of  the  bushes.  The  Spring  was  standing,  like  a 
conqueror,  with  Winter  at  his  feet.  In  the  blue  pond,  now  bloodless, 
a  dusky  evening-sky  lay  hollowed  out ;  and  the  gushing  waters  Avere 
moistening  the  flower-beds.  The  silver  sparks  of  stars  were  rising 
on  the  altar  of  the  East,  and  falling  down  extinguished  in  the  red-sea 
of  the  West' 

'  The  wind  whirred,  like  a  night-bird,  louder  through  the  trees  ; 
and  gave  tones  to  the  acacia-grove,  and  the  tones  called  -to  the  pair 
who  had  first  become  happy  within  it :  "  Enter,  new  mortal  pair, 
and  think  of  what  is  past,  and  of  my  withering  and  your  own ; 
and  be  holy  as  Eternity,  and  weep,  not  for  joy  only,  but  for  grati- 
tude also  I"  *  *  * 

'  They  reached  the  blazing,  rustling  marriage-house,  but  their  soft- 
ened hearts  sought  stillness  ;  and  a  foreign  touch,  as  in  the  blossom- 
ing vine,  would  have  disturbed  the  flower-nuptials  of  their  souls. 
They  turned  rather,  and  winded  up  into  the  churchyard,  to  preserve 
their  mood.  Majestic  on  the  groves  and  mountains  stood  the  Night 
before  man's  heart,  and  made  it  also  great.  Over  the  white  steeple- 
obelisk  the  sky  rested  bluer  and  darker  ;  and  behind  it  wavered  the 
withered  summit  of  the  Maypole  with  faded  flag.  The  son  noticed 
his  father's  grave,  on  which  the  wind  was  opening  and  shutting,  with 
harsh  noise,  the  small  lid  on  the  metal  cross,  to  let  the  year  of  his 
death  be  read  on  the  brass  plate  within.  An  overpowering  grief 
seized  his  heart  with  violent  streams  of  tears,  and  drove  him  to  the 
sunk  hillock  ;  and  he  led  his  bride  to  the  grave,  and  said  :  "  Here 
sleeps  he,  my  good  father  ;  in  his  thirty -second  year  he  was  carried 
hither  to  his  long  rest.  0  thou  good  dear  father,  couldst  thou  to-day 
but  see  the  happiness  of  thy  son,  like  my  mother  !  But  thy  eyes  are 
empty,  and  thy  breast  is  full  of  ashes,  and  thou  seest  us  not.  "  —  He 
was  silent.  The  bride  wept  aloud  ;  she  saw  the  mouldering  coffins 
of  her  parents  open,  and  the  two  dead  arise,  and  look  round  for  their 
daughter,  who  had  stayed  so  long  behind  them,  forsaken  on  the  earth. 
She  fell  on  his  neck  and  faltered  :  "  O  beloved,  I  have  neither  father 
nor  mother,  do  not  forsake  me  !  " 

'  0  thou  who  hast  still  a  father  and  a  mother,  thank  God  for  it  on 
the  day  when  thy  soul  is  full  of  glad  tears,  and  needs  a  bosom  wherein 
to  shed  them  

'  And  with  this  embracing  at  a  father's  grave,  let  this  day  of  joy 
be  holily  concluded.' 1 

l  Fixlein,  z.  9. 


218 


MISCELLANIES. 


In  such  passages,  slight  as  they  are,  we  fancy  an  experi- 
enced eye  will  trace  some  features  of  originality,  as  well  as 
of  uncommonness  :  an  open  sense  for  Nature,  a  soft  heart, 
a  warm  rich  fancy,  and  here  and  there  some  under-current 
of  Humour  are  distinctly  enough  discernible.  Of  this  latter 
quality,  which,  as  has  been  often  said,  forms  Riehter's  grand 
characteristic,  we  would  fain  give  our  readers  some  correct 
notion  ;  but  see  not  well  how  it  is  to  be  done.  Being  gen- 
uine poetic  humour,  not  drollery  or  vulgar  caricature,  it  is 
like  a  fine  essence,  like  a  soul ;  we  discover  it  only  in  whole 
works  and  delineations ;  as  the  soul  is  only  to  be  seen  in  the 
living  body,  not  in  detached  limbs  and  fragments.  Riehter's 
Humour  takes  a  great  variety  of  forms,  some  of  them  suffi- 
ciently grotesque  and  piebald  ;  ranging  from  the  light  kindly- 
comic  vein  of  Sterne  in  his  Trim  and  Uncle  Toby,  over  all 
intermediate  degrees,  to  the  rugged  grim  farce-tragedy  often 
manifested  in  Hogarth's  pictures  ;  nay,  to  still  darker  and 
wilder  moods  than  this.  Of  the  former  sort  are  his  charac- 
ters of  Fixlein,  Schmelzle,  Fibel ;  of  the  latter,  his  Vult, 
Giannozzo,  Leibgeber,  Schoppe,  which  last  two  are  indeed 
one  and  the  same.  Of  these,  of  the  spirit  that  reigns  in 
them,  we  should  despair  of  giving  other  than  the  most  in- 
adequate and  even  incorrect  idea,  by  any  extracts  or  expo- 
sitions that  could  possibly  be  furnished  here.  Not  without 
reluctance  we  have  accordingly  renounced  that  enterprise  ; 
and  must  content  ourselves  with  some  '  Extra-leaf,'  or  other 
separable  passage  ;  which,  if  it  afford  no  emblem  of  Rieh- 
ter's Humour,  may  be,  in  these  circumstances,  our  best  ap- 
proximation to  such.  Of  the  '  Extra-leaves '  in  Hesperus 
itself,  a  considerable  volume  might  be  formed,  and  truly  one 
of  the  strangest.  Most  of  them,  however,  are  national ; 
could  not  be  apprehended  without  a  commentary  ;  and  even 
then  much  to  their  disadvantage,  for  Humour  must  be  seen, 
not  through  a  glass,  but  face  to  face.  The  following  is  nowise 
one  of  the  best ;  but  it  turns  on  what  we  believe  is  a  quite 
European  subject,  at  all  events  is  certainly  an  English  one. 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


219 


'  Exlra-leuf  on  Daughter-full  Houses. 

'  The  Minister's  house  was  an  open  bookshop,  the  books  in  which 
(the  daughters )  you  might  read  there,  but  could  not  take  home  with 
you.  Though  five  other  daughters  were  already  standing  in  five 
private  libraries,  as  wives,  and  one  under  the  ground  at  Maienthal 
was  sleeping  off  the  child's-play  of  life,  yet  still  in  this  daughter-ware- 
house there  remained  three  gratis  copies  to  be  disposed  of  to  good 
friends.  The  Minister  was  always  prepared,  in  drawings  from  the 
office-lottery,  to  give  his  daughters  as  premiums  to  winners,  and 
holders  of  the  lucky  ticket.  Whom  God  gives  an  office,  he  also 
gives,  if  not  sense  for  it,  at  least  a  wife.  In  a  daughter-full  house, 
there  must,  as  in  the  Church  of  St.  Peter's,  be  confessionals  for  all 
nations,  for  all  characters,  for  all  faults ;  that  the  daughters  may  sit 
as  confessoresses  therein,  and  absolve  from  all,  bachelorship  only  ex- 
cepted. As  a  Natural-Philosopher,  I  have  many  times  admired  the 
wise  methods  of  Nature  for  distributing  daughters  and  plants :  Is  it 
not  a  fine  arrangement,  said  I  to  the  Natural-Historian  Goeze,  that 
Nature  should  have  bestowed  specially  on  young  women,  who  for 
their  growth  require  a  rich  mineralogical  soil,  some  sort  of  hooking 
apparatus,  whereby  to  stick  themselves  on  miserable  marriage-cattle, 
that  they  may  carry  them  to  fat  places  1  Thus  Linnaeus,1  as  you 
know,  observes  that  such  seeds  as  can  flourish  only  in  fat  earth  are 
furnished  with  barbs,  and  so  fasten  themselves  the  better  on  grazing 
quadrupeds,  which  transport  them  to  stalls  and  dunghills.  Strangely 
does  Nature,  by  the  wind,  —  which  father  and  mother  must  raise,  — 
scatter  daughters  and  fir-seeds  into  the  arable  spots  of  the  forest. 
Who  does  not  remark  the  final  cause  here,  and  how  Nature  has 
equipped  many  a  daughter  with  such  and  such  charms,  simply  that 
some  Peer,  some  mitred  Abbot,  Cardinal-deacon,  appanaged  Prince, 
or  mere  country  Baron,  may  lay  hold  of  said  charmer,  and  in  the 
character  of  Father  or  Brideman,  hand  her  over  ready-made  to  some 
gawk  of  the  like  sort,  as  a  wife  acquired  by  purchase  ?  And  do  we 
find  in  bilberries  a  slighter  attention  on  the  part  of  Nature  ?  Does 
not  the  same  Linnseus  notice,  in  the  same  treatise,  that  they  too  are 
cased  in  a  nutritive  juice  to  incite  the  Fox  to  eat  them  ;  after  which, 
the  villain, — digest  them  he  cannot, — 'in  such  sort  as  he  may,  be- 
comes their  sower  ?  — 

'  Oh,  my  heart  is  more  in  earnest  than  you  think ;  the  parents 
anger  me,  who  are  soul-brokers ;  the  daughters  sadden  me,  who  are 
made  slave-negresses.  —  Ah,  is  it  wonderful  that  these,  who,  in  their 
West-Indian  market-place,  must  dance,  laugh,  speak,  sing,  till  some 

i '  His  Amcen.  Acad.  —  The  Treatise  on  the  Habitable  Globe.' 


220 


MISCELLANIES. 


lord  of  a  plantation  take  them  home  with  him,  —  that  these,  I  say, 
should  be  as  slavishly  treated,  as  they  are  sold  and  bought  3  Ye  poor 
lambs !  —  And  yet  ye  too  are  as  bad  as  your  sale-mothers  and 
sale-fathers  :  —  what  is  one  to  do  with  his  enthusiasm  for  your  sex, 
when  one  travels  through  German  towns,  where  every  heaviest- 
pursed,  every  longest-titled  individual,  were  he  second  cousin  to  the 
Devil  himself,  can  point  with  his  finger  to  thirty  houses,  and  say  : 
"I  know  not,  shall  it  be  from  the  pearl-coloured,  or  the  nut-brown, 
or  the  steel-green  house,  that  I  wed;  open  to  customers  are  they 
all !  "  —  How,  my  girls  !  Is  your  heart  so  little  worth  that  you  cut 
it,  like  old  clothes,  after  any  fashion,  to  fit  any  breast ;  and  does  it 
wax  or  shrink,  then,  like  a  Chinese  ball,  to  fit  itself  into  the  ball- 
mould  and  marriage  ring-case  of  any  male  heart  whatever  ?  "  Well, 
it  must ;  unless  we  would  sit  at  home,  and  grow  Old  Maids,"  answer 
they  ;  whom  I  will  not  answer,  but  turn  scornfully  away  from  them, 
to  address  that  same  Old  Maid  in  these  words : 

'  "  Forsaken,  but  patient  one  !  misknown  and  mistreated  !  Think 
not  of  the  times  when  thou  hadst  hope  of  better  than  the  present  are, 
and  repent  the  noble  pride  of  thy  heart  never  !  It  is  not  always  our 
duty  to  marry,  but  it  is  always  our  duty  to  abide  by  right,  not  to 
purchase  happiness  by  loss  of  honour,  not  to  avoid  unweddedness  by 
untruthfulness.  Lonely,  unadmired  heroine  !  in  thy  last  hour,  when 
all  Life  and  the  bygone  possessions  and  scaffoldings  of  Life  shall 
crumble  to  pieces,  ready  to  fall  down ;  in  that  hour  thou  wilt  look 
back  on  thy  untenanted  life  ;  no  children,  no  husband,  no  wet  eyes 
will  be  there ;  but  in  the  empty  dusk,  one  high,  pure,  angelic,  smil- 
ing, beaming  Figure,  godlike  and  mounting  to  the  Godlike,  will 
hover,  and  beckon  thee  to  mount  with  her  ;  —  mount  thou  with  her, 
the  Figure  is  thy  Virtue."  ' 

We  have  spoken  above,  and  warmly,  of  Jean  Paul's  Im- 
agination, of  his  high  devout  feeling,  which  it  were  now  a 
still  more  grateful  part  of  our  task  to  exhibit.  But  in  this 
also  our  readers  must  content  themselves  with  some  imper- 
fect glimpses.  What  religious  opinions  and  aspirations  he 
specially  entertained,  how  that  noblest  portion  of  man's  inter- 
est represented  itself  in  such  a  mind,  were  long  to  describe, 
did  we  even  know  it  with  certainty.  He  hints  somewhere 
that  '  the  soul,  which  by  nature  looks  Heavenward,  is  without 
a  Temple  in  this  age ; '  in  which  little  sentence,  the  careful 
reader  will  decipher  much. 

'  But  there  will  come  another  era,'  says  Paul,  '  when  it  shall  be 


JEAN  PAUL  FEIEDRICH  PJCHTER. 


221 


light,  and  man  will  aw*aken  from  his  lofty  dreams,  and  find  —  his 
dreams  still  there,  and  that  nothing  is  gone  save  his  sleep. 

'  The  stones  and  rocks,  which  two  veiled  Figures  (Necessity  and 
Vice),  like  Deucalion  and  Pyrrha,  are  casting  behind  them,  at  Good- 
ness, will  themselves  become  men. 

'  And  on  the  Western-gate  (Abendthor,  evening-gate)  of  this  cen- 
tury stands  written  :'  Here  is  the  way  to  Virtue  and  Wisdom  ;  as  on 
the  Western-gate  at  Cherson  stands  the  proud  Inscription  :  Here  is 
the  way  to  Byzance. 

'Infinite  Providence,  Thou  wilt  cause  the  day  to  dawn. 

'But  as  yet,  struggles  the  twelfth-hour  of  the  Night :  the  nocturnal 
birds  of  prey  are  on  the  wing,  spectres  uproar,  the  dead  walk,  the 
living  dream.'  1 

Connected  with  this,  there  is  one  other  piece,  which  also, 
for  its  singular  poetic  qualities,  we  shall  translate  here.  The 
reader  has  heard  much  of  Richter's  Dreams,  with  what 
strange  prophetic  power  he  rules  over  that  chaos  of  spiritual 
Nature,  bodying  forth  a  whole  world  of  Darkness,  broken  by- 
pallid  gleams  or  wild  sparkles  of  light,  and  peopled  with 
huge,  shadowy,  bewildered  shapes,  full  of  grandeur  and 
meaning.  No  Poet  known  to  us,  not  Milton  himself,  shows 
such  a  vastness  of  Imagination ;  such  a  rapt,  deep,  Old- 
Hebrew  spirit  as  Richter  in  these  scenes.  He  mentions,  in 
his  Biographical  Notes,  the  impression  which  these  lines  of 
the  Tempest  had  on  him,  as  recited  by  one  of  his  companions : 

'  We  are  such  stuff 
As  Dreams  are  made  of,  and  our  little  Life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep. 

'  The  passage  of  Shakspeare,'  says  he,  '  rounded  with  a  sleep 
1  {mit  Schlaf  umgeben),  in  Plattner's  mouth,  created  whole 
'  books  in  me.'  —  The  following  Dream  is  perhaps  his  grand- 
est, as  undoubtedly  it  is  among  his  most  celebrated.  We 
shall  give  it  entire,  long  as  it  is,  and  therewith  finish  our 
quotations.  What  value  he  himself  put  on  it,  may  be 
gathered  from  the  following  Note  :  '  If  ever  my  heart,'  says 
he,  '  were  to  grow  so  wretched  and  so  dead  that  all  feelings 
1  Hesperus :  Preface. 


222 


MISCELLANIES. 


?  in  it  which  announce  the  being  of  a  God  were  extinct 
'  there,  I  would  terrify  myself  with  this  sketch  of  mine ;  it 
'  would  heal  me,  and  give  me  my  feelings  back.'  We  trans- 
late from  Siebenkds,  where  it  forms  the  first  Chapter,  or  Blu- 
menstuck  (Flower-Piece). 

'  The  purpose  of  this  Fiction  is  the  excuse  of  its  boldness.  Men 
deny  the  Divine  Existence  with  as  little  feeling  as  the  most  assert  it. 
Even  in  our  true  systems  we  go  on  collecting  mere  words,  play- 
marks  and  medals,  as  misers  do  coins  ;  and  not  .till  late  do  we  trans- 
form the  words  into  feelings,  the  coins  into  enjoyments.  A  man 
may,  for  twenty  years,  believe  the  Immortality  of  the  Soul;  —  in  the 
one-and-twentieth,  in  some  great  moment,  he  for  the  first  time  dis- 
covers with  amazement  the  rich  meaning  of  this  belief,  the  warmth 
of  this  Naphtha-well. 

'  Of  such  sort,  too,  was  my  terror,  at  the  poisonous  stifling  vapour 
which  floats  out  round  the  heart  of  him  who,  for  the  first  time,  enters 
the  school  of  Atheism.  I  could  with  less  pain  deny  Immortality 
than  Deity  :  there  I  should  lose  but  a  world  covered  with  mists,  here 
I  should  lose  the  present  world,  namely,  the  Sun  thereof :  the  whole 
spiritual  Universe  is  dashed  asunder  by  the  hand  of  Atheism  into 
numberless  quicksilver-points  of  Ale's,  which  glitter,  run,  waver,  fly 
together  or  asunder,  without  unity  or  continuance.  No  one  in  Cre- 
ation is  so  alone,  as  the  denier  of  God  ;  he  mourns,  with  an  orphaned 
heart  that  has  lost  its  great  Father,  by  the  Corpse  of  Nature,  which 
no  World-spirit  moves  and  holds  together,  and  which  grows  in  its 
grave ;  and  he  mourns  by  that  Corpse  till  he  himself  crumble  off 
from  it.  The  whole  world  lies  before  him,  like  the  Egyptian  Sphinx 
of  stone,  half-buried  in  the  sand ;  and  the  All  is  the  cold  iron  mask 
of  a  formless  I-Sternity.  *  *  * 

'  I  merely  remark  farther,  that  with  the  belief  of  Atheism,  the 
belief  of  Immortality  is  quite  compatible ;  for  the  same  Necessity, 
which  in  this  Life  threw  my  light  dewdrop  of  a  Me  into  a  flower-bell 
and  —  under  a  Sun,  can  repeat  that  process  in  a  second  life;  nay, 
more  easily  embody  me  the  second  time  than  the  first. 


'If  we  hear,  in  childhood,  that  the  Dead,  about  midnight,  when 
our  sleep  reaches  near  the  soul,  and  darkens  even  our  dreams,  awake 
out  of  theirs,  and  in  the  church  mimic  the  worship  of  the  living,  we 
shudder  at  Death  by  reason  of  the  dead,  and  in  the  night-solitude 
turn  away  our  eyes  from  the  long  silent  windows  of  the  church, 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDEICH  RICHTEE. 


223 


and  fear  to  search  in  their  gleaming,  whether  it  proceed  from  the 
moon. 

'  Childhood,  and  rather  its  terrors  than  its  raptures,  take  wings 
and  radiance  again  in  dreams,  and  sport  like  fire-flies  in  the  little 
night  of  the  soul.  Crush  not  these  flickering  sparks! — Leave  us 
even  our  dark  painful  dreams  as  higher  half-shadows  of  reality  !  — 
And  wherewith  will  you  replace  to  us  those  dreams,  which  bear  us 
away  from  under  the  tumult  of  the  waterfall  into  the  still  heights  of 
childhood,  where  the  stream  of  life  yet  ran  silent  in  its  little  plain, 
and  flowed  towards  its  abysses,  a  mirror  of  the  Heaven  ?  — 

'  I  was  lying  once,  on  a  summer  evening,  in  the  sunshine ;  and  I 
fell  asleep.  Methought  I  awoke  in  the  Churchyard.  The  down- 
rolling  wheels  of  the  steeple-clock,  which  was  striking  eleven,  had 
awakened  me.  In  the  emptied  night-heaven  I  looked  for  the  Sun ; 
for  I  thought  an  eclipse  was  veiling  him  with  the  Moon.  All  the 
Graves  were  open,  and  the  iron  doors  of  the  charnel-house  were 
swinging  to  and  fro  by  invisible  hands.  On  the  walls  flitted 
shadows,  which  proceeded  from  no  one,  and  other  shadows  stretched 
upwards  in  the  pale  air.  In  the  open  coffins  none  now  lay  sleeping, 
but  the  children.  Over  the  whole  heaven  hung,  in  large  folds,  a  gray 
sultry  mist ;  which  a  giant  shadow,  like  vapour,  was  drawing  down, 
nearer,  closer  and  hotter.  Above  me  I  heard  the  distant  fall  of  ava- 
lanches; under  me  the  first  step  of  a  boundless  earthquake.  The 
Church  wavered  up  and  down  with  two  interminable  Dissonances, 
which  struggled  with  each  other  in  it;  endeavouring  in  vain  to  mingle 
in  unison.  At  times,  a  gray  glimmer  hovered  along  the  windows,  and 
under  it  the  lead  and  iron  fell  down  molten.  The  net  of  the  mist, 
and  the  tottering  Earth  brought  me  into  that  hideous  Temple ;  at 
the  door  of  which,  in  two  poison-bushes,  two  glittering  Basilisks  lay 
brooding.  I  passed  through  unknown  Shadows,  on  whom  ancient 
centuries  were  impressed.  —  All  the  Shadows  were  standing  round 
the  empty  Altar;  and  in  all,  not  the  heart,  but  the  breast  quivered 
and  pulsed.  One  dead  man  only,  who  had  just  been  buried  there, 
still  lay  on  his  coffin  without  quivering  breast;  and  on  his  smiling 
countenance  stood  a  happy  dream.  But  at  the  entrance  of  one  Liv- 
ing, he  awoke,  and  smiled  no  longer  ;  he  lifted  his  heavy  eyelids,  but 
within  was  no  eye;  and  in  his  beating  breast  there  lay,  instead  of  a 
heart,  a  wound.  He  held  up  his  hands,  and  folded  them  to  pray ; 
but  the  arms  lengthened  out  and  dissolved ;  and  the  hands,  still 
folded  together,  fell  away.  Above,  on  the  Church-dome,  stood  the 
dial-plate  of  Eternity,  whereon  no  number  appeared,  and  which  was 
its  own  index :  but  a  black  finger  pointed  thereon,  and  the  Dead 
sought  to  see  the  time  by  it. 

'  Now  sank  from  aloft  a  noble,  high  Form,  with  a  look  of  unefface- 


224 


MISCELLANIES. 


able  sorrow,  down  to  the  Altar,  and  all  the  Dead  cried  out,  "  Christ ! 
is  there  no  God  ?  "  He  answered,  "  There  is  none  !  "  The  whole 
Shadow  of  eacli  then  shuddered,  not  the  breast  alone ;  and  one  after 
the  other,  all,  in  this  shuddering,  shook  into  pieces. 

'  Christ  continued  :  "  I  went  through  the  Worlds,  I  mounted  into 
the  Suns,  and  flew  with  the  Galaxies  through  the  wastes  of  Heaven  ; 
but  there  is  no  God  !  I  descended  as  far  as  Being  casts  its  shadow,  and 
looked  down  into  the  Abyss  and  cried,  Father,  where  art  thou  ?  But 
I  heard  only  the  everlasting  storm  which  no  one  guides,  and  the 
gleaming  Rainbow  of  Creation  hung  without  a  Sun  that  made  it, 
over  the  Abyss,  and  trickled  down.  And  when  I  looked  up  to  the 
immeasurable  world  for  the  Divine  Eye,  it  glared  on  me  with  an 
empty,  black,  bottomless  Eye-socket ;  and  Eternity  lay  upon  Chaos, 
eating  it  and  ruminating  it.  Cry  on,  ye  Dissonances  ;  cry  away  the 
Shadows,  for  He  is  not !  " 

'  The  pale-grown  Shadows  flitted  away,  as  white  vapour  which 
frost  has  formed  with  the  warm  breath  disappears  ;  and  all  was  void. 
0,  then  came,  fearful  for  the  heart,  the  dead  Children  who  had 
been  awakened  in  the  Churchyard,  into  the  Temple,  and  cast  them- 
selves before  the  high  Form  on  the  Altar,  and  said,  "Jesus,  have  we 
no  Father  ?  "  And  he  answered,  with  streaming  tears,  "  We  are  all 
orphans,  I  and  you  :  we  are  without  Father  !  " 

'  Then  shrieked  the  Dissonances  still  louder,  —  the  quivering  walls 
of  the  Temple  parted  asunder ;  and  the  Temple  and  the  Children 
sank  down,  and  the  whole  Earth  and  the  Sun  sank  after  it,  and  the 
whole  Universe  sank  with  its  immensity  before  us ;  and  above,  on 
the  summit  of  immeasurable  Nature,  stood  Christ,  and  gazed  down 
into  the  Universe  chequered  with  its  thousand  Suns,  as  into  the  Mine 
bored  out  of  the  Eternal  Night,  in  which  the  Suns  run  like  mine- 
lamps,  and  the  Galaxies  like  silver  veins. 

'  And  as  he  saw  the  grinding  press  of  Worlds,  the  torch-dance  of 
celestial  wildfires,  and  the  coral-banks  of  beating  hearts  ;  and  as  he 
saw  how  world  after  world  shook  off  its  glimmering  souls  upon  the 
Sea  of  Death,  as  a  water-bubble  scatters  swimming  lights  on  the 
waves,  then  majestic  as  the  Highest  of  the  Finite,  he  raised  his  eyes 
towards  the  Nothingness,  and  towards  the  void  Immensity,  and  said : 
"Dead,  dumb  Nothingness  !  Cold,  everlasting  Necessity!  Frantic 
Chance  !  Know  ye  what  this  is  that  lies  beneath  you  ?  When  will 
ye  crush  the  Universe  in  pieces,  and  mc  1  Chance,  knowest  thou 
what  thou  doest,  when  with  thy  hurricanes  thou  walkest  through 
that  snow-powder  of  Stars,  and  extinguishest  Sun  after  Sun,  and 
that  sparkling  dew  of  heavenly  lights  goes  out,  as  thou  passest 
over  it !  How  is  each  so  solitary  in  this  wide  grave  of  the  All ! 
I  am  alone  witli  myself !    0  Father,  0  Father !  where  is  thy 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDPJCH  EICHTEE. 


225 


infinite  bosom,  that  I  might  rest  on  it  ?  Ah,  if  each  soul  is  its 
own  father  and  creator,  why  can  it  not  be  its  own  destroyer 
too  ? 

'  "  Is  this  beside  me  yet  a  Man  ?  Unhappy  one  !  Your  little  life 
is  the  sigh  of  Nature,  or  only  its  echo ;  a  convex-mirror  throws  its 
rays  into  that  dust-cloud  of  dead  men's  ashes,  down  on  the  Earth ; 
and  thus  you,  cloud-formed  wavering  phantasms,  arise.  — Look  down 
into  the  Abyss,  over  which  clouds  of  ashes  are  moving ;  mists  full 
of  Worlds  reek  up  from  the  Sea  of  Death  ;  the  Future  is  a  mounting 
mist,  and  the  Present  is  a  falling  one.  —  Knowest  thou  thy  Earth 
again  ?  " 

'  Here  Christ  looked  down,  and  his  eye  filled  with  tears,  and  he 
said  :  "  Ah,  I  was  once  there  :  I  was  still  happy  then  ;  I  had  still  my 
Infinite  Father,  and  looked  up  cheerfully  from  the  mountains,  into 
the  immeasurable  Heaven,  and  pressed  my  mangled  breast  on  his 
healing  form,  and  said  even  in  the  bitterness  of  death  :  Father,  take 
thy  son  from  this  bleeding  hull,  and  lift  him  to  thy  heart !  —  Ah,  ye 
too  happy  inhabitants  of  Earth,  ye  still  believe  in  Him.  Perhaps 
even  now  your  Sun  is  going  down,  and  ye  kneel  amid  blossoms,  and 
brightness,  and  tears,  and  lift  trustful  hands,  and  cry  with  joy -stream- 
ing eyes,  to  the  opened  Heaven  :  "  Me  too  thou  knowest,  Omnipotent, 
and  all  my  wounds ;  and  at  death  thou  receivest  me,  and  closest  them 
all ! "  Unhappy  creatures,  at  death  they  will  not  be  closed  !  Ah, 
when  the  sorrow-laden  lays  himself,  with  galled  back,  into  the  Earth, 
to  sleep  till  a  fairer  Morning  full  of  Truth,  full  of  Virtue  and  Joy,  — 
he  awakens  in  a  stormy  Chaos,  in  the  everlasting  Midnight,  —  and 
there  comes  no  Morning,  and  no  soft  healing  hand,  and  no  Infinite 
Father  !  —  Mortal,  beside  me  !  if  thou  still  livest,  pray  to  Him :  else 
hast  thou  lost  him  forever  !  " 

'And  as  I  fell  down,  and  looked  into  the  sparkling  Universe,  I 
saw  the  upborne  Kings  of  the  Giant-Serpent,  the  Serpent  of  Eternity, 
which  had  coiled  itself  round  the  All  of  Worlds,  —  and  the  Eings 
sank  down,  and  encircled  the  All  doubly ;  and  then  it  wound  itself, 
innumerable  ways,  round  Nature,  and  swept  the  Worlds  from  their 
places,  and  crashing,  squeezed  the  Temple  of  Immensity  together, 
into  the  Church  of  a  Burying-ground, — and  all  grew  strait,  dark, 
fearful,  —  and  an  immeasurably  extended  Hammer  was  to  strike  the 
last  hour  of  Time,  and  shiver  the  Universe  asunder,  .  .  .  when  I 

AWOKE. 

*  My  soul  wept  for  joy  that  I  could  still  pray  to  God  ;  and  the  joy, 
and  the  weeping,  and  the  faith  on  him  were  my  prayer.  And  as  I 
arose,  the  Sun  was  glowing  deep  behind  the  full  purpled  corn-ears, 
and  casting  meekly  the  gleam  of  its  twilight-red  on  the  little  Moon, 
which  was  rising  in  the  East  without  an  Aurora ;  and  between  the 

VOL.  II.  15 


226 


MISCELLANIES. 


sky  and  the  earth,  a  gay  transient  air-people  was  stretching  out  its 
short  wings  and  living,  as  I  did,  before  the  Infinite  Father ;  and  from 
all  Nature  around  me  flowed  peaceful  tones  as  from  distant  evening- 
bells.' 

Without  commenting  on  this  singular  piece,  we  must  here 
for  the  present  close  our  lucubrations  on  Jean  Paul.  To 
delineate,  with  any  correctness,  the  specific  features  of  such 
a  genius,  and  of  its  operations  and  results  in  the  great  variety 
of  provinces  where  it  dwelt  and  worked,  were  a  long  task  ; 
for  which,  perhaps,  some  groundwork  may  have  been  laid 
here,  and  which,  as  occasion  serves,  it  will  be  pleasant  for  us 
to  resume. 

Probably  enough,  our  readers,  in  considering  these  strange 
matters,  will  too  often  bethink  them  of  that  '  Episode  con- 
cerning Paul's  Costume  ; '  and  conclude  that,  as  in  living,  so 
in  writing,  he  was  a  Mannerist,  and  man  of  continual  Af- 
fectations. We  will  not  quarrel  with  them  on  this  point ; 
we  must  not  venture  among  the  intricacies  it  would  lead  us 
into.  At  the  same  time,  we  hope  many  will  agree  with  us 
in  honouring  Richter,  such  as  he  was  ;  and  '  in  spite  of  his 
hundred  real,  and  his  ten  thousand  seeming  faults,'  discern 
under  this  wondrous  guise  the  spirit  of  a  true  Poet  and 
Philosopher.  A  Poet,  and  among  the  highest  of  his  time, 
we  must  reckon  him,  though  he  wrote  no  verses  ;  a  Philoso- 
pher, though  he  promulgated  no  systems  :  for,  on  the  whole, 
that  '  Divine  Idea  of  the  World  '  stood  in  clear  ethereal  light 
before  his  mind  ;  he  recognised  the  Invisible,  even  under  the 
mean  forms  of  these  days,  and  with  a  high,  strong,  not  unin- 
spired heart,  strove  to  represent  it  in  the  Visible,  and  publish 
tidings  of  it  to  his  fellow-men.  This  one  virtue,  the  foun- 
dation of  all  the  other  virtues,  and  which  a  long  study  more 
and  more  clearly  reveals  to  us  in  Jean  Paul,  will  cover  far 
greater  sins  than  his  were.  It  raises  him  into  quite  another 
sphere  than  that  of  the  thousand  elegant  Sweet-singers,  and 
cause-and-effect  Philosophes,  in  his  own  country,  or  in  this  ; 
the  million  Novel-manufacturers,  Sketchers,  practical  Dis- 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER. 


227 


coursers  and  so  forth,*not  once  reckoned  in.  Such  a  man  we 
can  safely  recommend  to  universal  study ;  and  for  those  who, 
in  the  actual  state  of  matters,  may  the  most  blame  him,  re- 
peat the  old  maxim  :  '  What  is  extraordinary  try  to  look  at 
with  your  own  eyes.' 


228 


MISCELLANIES. 


ON  HISTORY.! 

[1830.] 

Clio  was  figured  by  the  ancients  as  the  eldest  daughter 
of  Memory,  and  chief  of  the  Muses ;  which  dignity,  whether 
we  regard  the  essential  qualities  of  her  art,  or  its  practice 
and  acceptance  among  men,  we  shall  still  find  to  have  been 
fitly  bestowed.  History,  as  it  lies  at  the  root  of  all  science, 
is  also  the  first  distinct  product  of  man's  spiritual  nature ;  his 
earliest  expression  of  what  can  be  called  Thought.  It  is  a 
looking  both  before  and  after  ;  as,  indeed,  the  coming  Time 
already  waits,  unseen,  yet  definitely  shaped,  predetermined 
and  inevitable,  in  the  Time  come  ;  and  only  by  the  combina- 
tion of  both  is  the  meaning  of  either  completed.  The  Sibyl- 
line Books,  though  old,  are  not  the  oldest.  Some  nations 
have  prophecy,  some  have  not :  but  of  all  mankind,  there  is 
no  tribe  so  rude  that  it  has  not  attempted  History,  though 
several  have  not  arithmetic  enough  to  count  Five.  History 
has  been  written  with  quipo-threads,  with  feather-pictures,  with 
wampum-belts  ;  still  oftener  with  earth-mounds  and  monu- 
mental stone-heaps,  whether  as  pyramid  or  cairn  ;  for  the 
Celt  and  the  Copt,  the  Red  man  as  well  as  the  White,  lives 
between  two  eternities,  and  warring  against  Oblivion,  he 
would  fain  unite  himself  in  clear  conscious  relation,  as  in 
dim  unconscious  relation  he  is  already  united,  with  the  whole 
Future  and  the  whole  Past. 

A  talent  for  History  may  be  said  to  be  born  with  us,  as 
our  chief  inheritance.    In  a  certain  sense  all  men  are  his- 

1  FbASEK'S  MaGAZIXK,  No.  10. 


ON  HISTORY. 


229 


torians.  Is  not  every.memory  written  quite  full  with  Annals, 
wherein  joy  and  mourning,  conquest  and  loss  manifoldly  al- 
ternate ;  and,  with  or  without  philosophy,  the  whole  fortunes 
of  one  little  inward  Kingdom,  and  all  its  politics,  foreign  and 
domestic,  stand  ineffaceahly  recorded  ?  Our  very  speech  is 
curiously  historical.  Most  men,  you  may  observe,  speak 
only  to  narrate ;  not  in  imparting  what  they  have  thought, 
which  indeed  were  often  a  very  small  matter,  but  in  exhibit- 
ing what  they  have  undergone  or  seen,  which  is  a  quite 
unlimited  one,  do  talkers  dilate.  Cut  us  off  from  Narrative, 
how  would  the  stream  of  conversation,  even  among  the  wisest, 
languish  into  detached  handfuls,  and  among  the  foolish  utterly 
evaporate  !  Thus,  as  we  do  nothing  but  enact  History,  we 
say  little  but  recite  it :  nay  rather,  in  that  widest  sense,  our 
whole  spiritual  life  is  built  thereon.  For,  strictly  considered, 
what  is  all  Knowledge  too  but  recorded  Experience,  and  a 
product  of  History ;  of  which,  therefore,  Reasoning  and 
Belief,  no  less  than  Action  and  Passion,  are  essential  ma- 
terials ? 

Under  a  limited,  and  the  only  practicable  shape,  History 
proper,  that  part  of  History  which  treats  of  remarkable  ac- 
tion, has,  in  all  modern  as  well  as  ancient  times,  ranked 
among  the  highest  arts,  and  perhaps  never  stood  higher  than 
in  these  times  of  ours.  For  whereas,  of  old,  the  charm  of 
History  lay  chiefly  in  gratifying  our  common  appetite  for  the 
wonderful,  for  the  unknown ;  and  her  office  was  but  as  that 
of  a  Minstrel  and  Story-teller,  she  has  now  farther  become 
a  Schoolmistress,  and  professes  to  instruct  in  gratifying. 
Whether,  with  the  stateliness  of  that  venerable  character, 
she  may  not  have  taken  up  something  of  its  austerity  and 
frigidity  ;  whether,  in  the  logical  terseness  of  a  Hume  or  Rob- 
ertson, the  graceful  ease  and  gay  pictorial  heartiness  of  a 
Herodotus  or  Froissart  may  not  be  wanting,  is  not  the  ques- 
tion for  us  here.  Enough  that  all  learners,  all  inquiring 
minds  of  every  order,  are  gathered  round  her  footstool,  and 
reverently  pondering  her  lessons,  as  the  true  basis  of  Wis- 


230 


MISCELLANIES. 


dom.  Poetry,  Divinity,  Politics,  Physics,  have  each  their 
adherents  and  adversaries ;  each  little  guild  supporting  a 
defensive  and  offensive  war  for  its  own  special  domain ; 
while  the  domain  of  History  is  as  a  Free  Emporium,  where 
all  these  belligerents  peaceably  meet  and  furnish  themselves ; 
and  Sentimentalist  and  Utilitarian,  Sceptic  and  Theologian, 
with  one  voice  advise  us :  Examine  History,  for  it  is  '  Phi- 
losophy teaching  by  Experience.' 

Far  be  it  from  us  to  disparage  such  teaching,  the  very 
attempt  at  which  must  be  precious.  Neither  shall  we 
too  rigidly  inquire :  How  much  it  has  hitherto  profited  ? 
Whether  most  of  what  little  practical  wisdom  men  have,  has 
come  from  study  of  professed  History,  or  from  other  less 
boasted  sources,  whereby,  as  matters  now  stand,  a  Marl- 
borough may  become  great  in  the  world's  business,  with  no 
History  save  what  he  derives  from  Shakspeare's  Plays  ? 
Nay,  whether  in  that  same  teaching  by  Experience,  histori- 
cal Philosophy  has  yet  properly  deciphered  the  first  element 
of  all  science  in  this  kind  ?  What  the  aim  and  significance 
of  that  wondrous  changeful  Life  it  investigates  and  paints 
may  be?  Whence  the  course  of  man's  destinies  in  this 
Earth  originated,  and  whither  they  are  tending  ?  Or,  in- 
deed, if  they  have  any  course  and  tendency,  are  really 
guided  forward  by  an  unseen  mysterious  Wisdom,  or  only 
circle  in  blind  mazes,  without  recognisable  guidance  ?  Which 
questions,  altogether  fundamental,  one  might  think,  in  any 
Philosophy  of  History,  have,  since  the  era  when  Monkish 
Annalists  were  wont  to  answer  them  by  the  long-ago  extin- 
guished light  of  their  Missal  and  Breviary,  been  by  most 
philosophical  Historians  only  glanced  at  dubiously  and  from 
afar ;  by  many,  not  so  much  as  glanced  at. 

The  truth  is,  two  difficulties,  never  wholly  surmountable, 
lie  in  the  way.  Before  Philosophy  can  teach  by  Experience, 
the  Philosophy  has  to  be  in  readiness,  the  Experience  must 
be  gathered  and  intelligibly  recorded.  Now,  overlooking  the 
former  consideration,  and  with  regard  only  to  the  latter,  let 


ON  HISTORY. 


231 


any  one  who  has  examined  the  current  of  human  affairs,  and 
how  intricate,  perplexed,  unfathomable,  even  when  seen  into 
with  our  own  eyes,  are  their  thousandfold  blending  move- 
ments, say  whether  the  true  representing  of  it  is  easy  or 
impossible.  Social  Life  is  the  aggregate  of  all  the  individual 
men's  Lives  who  constitute  society ;  History  is  the  essence 
of  innumerable  Biographies.  But  if  one  Biography,  nay  our 
own  Biography,  study  and  recapitulate  it  as  we  may,  remains 
in  so  many  points  unintelligible  to  us  ;  how  much  more  must 
these  million,  the  very  facts  of  which,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
purport  of  them,  we  know  not,  and  cannot  know ! 

Neither  will  it  adequately  avail  us  to  assert  that  the 
general  inward  condition  of  Life  is  the  same  in  all  ages ; 
and  that  only  the  remarkable  deviations  from  the  common 
endowment  and  common  lot,  and  the  more  important  va- 
riations which  the  outward  figure  of  Life  has  from  time  to 
time  undergone,  deserve  memory  and  record.  The  inward 
condition  of  Life,  it  may  rather  be  affirmed,  the  conscious  or 
half-conscious  aim  of  mankind,  so  far  as  men  are  not  mere 
digesting-machines,  is  the  same  in  no  two  ages ;  neither  are 
the  more  important  outward  variations  easy  to  fix  on,  or 
always  well  capable  of  representation.  Which  was  the 
greatest  innovator,  which  was  the  more  important  personage 
in  man's  history,  he  who  first  led  armies  over  the  Alps,  and 
gained  the  victories  of  Canna?  and  Thrasymene ;  or  the 
nameless  boor  who  first  hammered  out  for  himself  an  iron 
spade  ?  When  the  oak-tree  is  felled,  the  whole  forest  echoes 
with  it ;  but  a  hundred  acorns  are  planted  silently  by  some 
unnoticed  breeze.  Battles  and  war-tumults,  which  for  the 
time  din  every  ear,  and  with  joy  or  terror  intoxicate  every 
heart,  pass  away  like  tavern-brawls ;  and  except  some  few 
Marathons  and  Morgartens,  are  remembered  by  accident, 
not  by  desert.  Laws  themselves,  political  Constitutions,  are 
not  our  Life,  but  only  the  house  wherein  our  Life  is  led: 
nay,  they  are  but  the  bare  walls  of  the  house;  all  whose 
essential  furniture,  the  inventions  and  traditions,  and  daily 


232 


MISCELLANIES. 


habits  that  regulate  and  support  our  existence,  are  the  work 
not  of  Dracos  and  Hampdens,  but  of  Phoenician  mariners, 
of  Italian  masons  and  Saxon  metallurgists,  of  philosophers, 
alchymists,  prophets,  and  all  the  long  forgotten  train  of  artists 
and  artisans ;  who  from  the  first  have  been  jointly  teaching 
us  how  to  think  and  how  to  act,  how  to  rule  over  spiritual 
and  over  physical  Nature.  Well  may  we  say  that  of  oar 
History  the  more  important  part  is  lost  without  recovery ; 
and,  —  as  thanksgivings  were  once  wont  to  be  offered  '  for 
unrecognised  mercies,'  —  look  with  reverence,  into  the  dark 
untenanted  places  of  the  Past,  where,  in  formless  oblivion, 
our  chief  benefactors,  with  all  their  sedulous  endeavours,  but 
not  with  the  fruit  of  these,  lie  entombed. 

So  imperfect  is  that  same  Experience,  by  which  Philoso- 
phy is  to  teach.  Nay,  even  with  regard  to  those  occurrences 
which  do  stand  recorded,  which,  at  their  origin  have  seemed 
worthy  of  record,  and  the  summary  of  which  constitutes  what 
we  now  call  History,  is  not  our  understanding  of  them  alto- 
gether incomplete ;  is  it  even  possible  to  represent  them  as 
they  were  ?  The  old  story  of  Sir  "Walter  Raleigh's  looking 
from  his  prison-window,  on  some  street-tumult,  which  after- 
wards three  witnesses  reported  in  three  different  ways,  him- 
self differing  from  them  all,  is  still  a  true  lesson  for  us. 
Consider  how  it  is  that  historical  documents  and  records 
originate ;  even  honest  records,  where  the  reporters  were 
unbiased  by  personal  regard ;  a  case  which,  were  nothing 
more  wanted,  must  ever  be  among  the  rarest.  The  real 
leading  features  of  a  historical  Transaction,  those  move- 
ments that  essentially  characterise  it,  and  alone  deserve  to 
be  recorded,  are  nowise  the  foremost  to  be  noted.  At  first, 
among  the  various  witnesses,  who  are  also  j)arties  interested, 
there  is  only  vague  wonder,  and  fear  or  hope,  and  the  noise 
of  Rumour's  thousand  tongues  ;  till,  after  a  season,  the  con- 
flict of  testimonies  has  subsided  into  some  general  issue  ;  and 
then  it  is  settled,  by  majority  of  votes,  that  such  and  such  a 
'  Crossing  of  the  Rubicon,'  an  '  Impeachment  of  Strafford,'  a 


ON  HISTORY. 


233 


'  Convocation  of  the  .Notables,'  are  epochs  in  the  world's  his- 
tory, cardinal  points  on  which  grand  world-revolutions  have 
hinged.  Suppose,  however,  that  the  majority  of  votes  was 
all  wrong ;  that  the  real  cardinal  points  lay  far  deeper ;  and 
had  been  passed  over  unnoticed,  because  no  Seer,  but  only 
mere  Onlookers,  .chanced  to  be  there!  Our  clock  strikes 
when  there  is  a  change  from  hour  to  hour ;  but  no  hammer 
in  the  Horologe  of  Time  peals  through  the  universe,  when 
there  is  a  change  from  Era  to  Era.  Men  understand  not 
what  is  among  their  hands  :  as  calmness  is  the  characteristic 
of  strength,  so  the  weightiest  causes  may  be  most  silent.  It 
is,  in  no  case,  the  real  historical  Transaction,  but  only  some 
more  or  less  plausible  scheme  and  theory  of  the  Transaction, 
or  the  harmonised  result  of  many  such  schemes,  each  varying 
from  the  other,  and  all  varying  from  truth,  that  we  can  ever 
hope  to  behold. 

Nay,  were  our  faculty  of  insight  into  passing  things  never 
so  complete,  there  is  still  a  fatal  discrepancy  between  our 
manner  of  observing  these,  and  their  manner  of  occurring. 
The  most  gifted  man  can  observe,  still  more  can  record,  only 
the  series  of  his  own  impressions :  his  observation,  therefore, 
to  say  nothing  of  its  other  imperfections,  must  be  successive, 
while  the  things  done  were  often  simultaneous;  the  things 
done  were  not  a  series,  but  a  group.  It  is  not  in  acted,  as 
it  is  in  written  History:  actual  events  are  nowise  so  simply 
related  to  each  other  as  parent  and  offspring  are ;  every 
single  event  is  the  offspring  not  of  one,  but  of  all  other 
events,  prior  or  contemporaneous,  and  will  in  its  turn  com- 
bine with  all  others  to  give  birth  to  new :  it  is  an  ever-living, 
ever-working  Chaos  of  Being,  wherein  shape  after  shape 
bodies  itself  forth  from  innumerable  elements.  And  this 
Chaos,  boundless  as  the  habitation  and  duration  of  man,  un- 
fathomable as  the  soul  and  destiny  of  man,  is  what  the  his- 
torian will  depict,  and  scientifically  guage,  we  may  say,  by 
threading  it  with  single  lines  of  a  few  ells  in  length  !  For 
as  all  Action  is,  by  its  nature,  to  be  figured  as  extended  in 


234 


MISCELLANIES. 


breadth  and  in  depth,  as  well  as  in  length ;  that  is  to  say,  is 
based  on  Passion  and  Mystery,  if  we  investigate  its  origin ; 
and  spreads  abroad  on  all  hands,  modifying  and  modified ; 
as  well  as  advances  towards  completion,  —  so  all  Narrative 
is,  by  its  nature,  of  only  one  dimension ;  only  travels  for- 
ward towards  one,  or  towards  successive  points  :  Narrative 
is  linear,  Action  is  solid.  Alas  for  our  '  chains,'  or  chainlets 
of '  causes  and  effects,'  which  we  so  assiduously  track  through 
certain  handbreadths  of  years  and  square  miles,  when  the 
whole  is  a  broad,  deep  Immensity,  and  each  atom  is  '  chained ' 
and  complected  with  all !  Truly,  if  History  is  Philosophy 
teaching  by  Experience,  the  writer  fitted  to  compose  History 
is  hitherto  an  unknown  man.  The  Experience  itself  would 
require  All-knowledge  to  record  it,  —  were  the  All-wisdom 
needful  for  such  Philosophy  as  would  interpret  it,  to  be  had 
for  asking.  Better  were  it  that  mere  earthly  Historians 
should  lower  such  pretensions,  more  suitable  for  Omniscience 
than  for  human  science  ;  and  aiming  only  at  some  picture  of 
the  things  acted,  which  picture  itself  will  at  best  be  a  poor 
approximation,  leave  the  inscrutable  purport  of  them  an  ac- 
knowledged secret :  or  at  most,  in  reverent  Faith,  far  differ- 
ent from  that  teaching  of  Philosophy,  pause  over  the  mys- 
terious vestiges  of  Him,  whose  path  is  in  the  great  deep  of 
Time,  whom  History  indeed  reveals,  but  only  all  History, 
and  in  Eternity,  will  clearly  reveal. 

Such  considerations  truly  were  of  small  profit,  did  they, 
instead  of  teaching  us  vigilance  and  reverent  humility  in  our 
inquiries  into  History,  abate  our  esteem  for  them,  or  discour- 
age us  from  unweariedly  prosecuting  them.  Let  us  search 
more  and  more  into  the  Past ;  let  all  men  explore  it,  as  the 
true  fountain  of  knowledge  ;  by  whose  light  alone,  conscious- 
ly or  unconsciously  employed,  can  the  Present  and  the  Fu- 
ture be  interpreted  or  guessed  at.  For  though  the  whole 
meaning  lies  far  beyond  our  ken  ;  yet  in  that  complex  Man- 
uscript, covered  over  with  formless  inextricably-entangled 
unknown  characters,  —  nay  which  is  a  Palimpsest,  and  had 


OX  HISTORY. 


235 


once  prophetic  writing,  still  dimly  legible  there,  —  some  let- 
ters, some  words,  may  be  deciphered ;  and  if  no  complete 
Philosophy,  here  and  there  an  intelligible  precept,  available 
in  practice,  be  gathered :  well  understanding,  in  the  mean 
while,  that  it  is  only  a  little  portion  we  have  deciphered  ; 
that  much  still  remains  to  be  interpreted ;  that  History  is  a 
real  Prophetic  Manuscript,  and  can  be  fully  interpreted  by 
no  man. 

But  the  Artist  in  History  may  be  distinguished  from  the 
Artisan  in  History ;  for  here,  as  in  all  other  provinces,  there 
are  Artists  and  Artisans ;  men  who  labour  mechanically  in  a 
department,  without  eye  for  the  Whole,  not  feeling  that  there 
is  a  Whole  ;  and  men  who  inform  and  ennoble  the  humblest 
department  with  an  Idea  of  the  Whole,  and  habitually  know 
that  only  in  the  Whole  is  the  Partial  to  be  truly  discerned. 
The  proceedings  and  the  duties  of  these  two,  in  regard  to 
History,  must  be  altogether  different.  Not,  indeed,  that  each 
has  not  a  real  worth,  in  his  several  degree.  The  simple  hus- 
bandman can  till  his  field,  and  by  knowledge  he  has  gained 
of  its  soil,  sow  it  with  the  fit  grain,  though  the  deep  rocks 
and  central  fires  are  unknown  to  him  :  his  little  crop  hangs 
under  and  over  the  firmament  of  stars,  and  sails  through 
whole  untracked  celestial  spaces,  between  Aries  and  Li- 
bra ;  nevertheless,  it  ripens  for  him  in  due  season,  and  he 
gathers  it  safe  into  his  barn.  As  a  husbandman  he  is  blame- 
less in  disregarding  those  higher  wonders  ;  but  as  a  thinker, 
and  faithful  inquirer  into  Nature,  he  were  wrong.  So  like- 
wise is  it  with  the  Historian,  who  examines  some  special 
aspect  of  History  ;  and  from  this  or  that  combination  of  cir- 
cumstances, political,  moral,  economical,  and  the  issues  it  has 
led  to,  infei-s  that  such  and  such  properties  belong  to  human 
society,  and  that  the  like  circumstances  will  produce  the  like 
issue;  which  inference,  if  other  trials  confirm  it,  must  be 
held  true  and  practically  valuable.  He  is  wrong  only,  and 
an  artisan,  when  he  fancies  that  these  properties,  discovered 
or  discoverable,  exhaust  the  matter ;  and  sees  not,  at  every 
step,  that  it  is  inexhaustible. 


236 


MISCELLANIES. 


However,  that  class  of  eause-and-effect  speculators,  with 
whom  no  wonder  would  remain  wonderful,  but  all  things  in 
Heaven  and  Earth  must  be  computed  and  '  accounted  for  ; ' 
and  even  the  Unknown,  the  Infinite  in  man's  Life,  had, 
under  the  words  enthusiasm,  superstition,  spirit  of  the  age 
and  so  forth,  obtained,  as  it  were,  an  algebraical  symbol  and 
given  value,  —  have  now  wellnigh  played  their  part  in  Eu- 
ropean culture  ;  and  may  be  considered,  as  in  most  countries, 
even  in  England  itself  where  they  linger  the  latest,  verging 
towards  extinction.  He  who  reads  the  inscrutable  Book  of 
Nature  as  if  it  were  a  Merchant's  Ledger,  is  justly  suspected 
of  having  never  seen  that  Book,  but  only  some  school  Synop- 
sis thereof ;  from  which,  if  taken  for  the  real  Book,  more 
error  than  insight  is  to  be  derived. 

Doubtless  also,  it  is  with  a  growing  feeling  of  the  infinite 
nature  of  History,  that  in  these  times,  the  old  principle, 
division  of  labour,  has  been  so  widely  applied  to  it.  The 
Political  Historian,  once  almost  the  sole  cultivator  of  His- 
tory, has  now  found  various  associates,  who  strive  to  elucidate 
other  phases  of  human  Life  ;  of  which,  as  hinted  above,  the 
political  conditions  it  is  passed  under  are  but  one,  and  though 
the  primary,  perhaps  not  the  most  important,  of  the  many 
outward  arrangements.  Of  this  Historian  himself,  moreover, 
in  his  own  special  department,  new  and  higher  things  are 
beginning  to  be  expected.  From  of  old,  it  was  too  often  to 
be  reproachfully  observed  of  him,  that  he  dwelt  with  dispro- 
portionate fondness  in  Senate-houses,  in  Battle-fields,  nay 
even  in  Kings'  Antechambers ;  forgetting,  that  far  away 
from  such  scenes,  the  mighty  tide  of  Thought  and  Action 
was  still  rolling  on  its  wondrous  course,  in  gloom  and  bright- 
ness ;  and  in  its  thousand  remote  valleys,  a  whole  world  of 
Existence,  with  or  without  an  earthly  sun  of  Happiness  to 
warm  it,  with  or  without  a  heavenly  sun  of  Holiness  to  purify 
and  sanctify  it,  was  blossoming  and  fading,  whether  the  '  fa- 
mous victory '  were  won  or  lost.  The  time  seems  coming 
when  much  of  this  must  be  amended ;  and  he  who  sees  no 


ON  HISTORY. 


237 


world  but  that  of  courts  and  camps  ;  and  writes  only  how 
soldiers  were  drilled  and  shot,  and  how  this  ministerial  con- 
juror out-conjured  that  other,  and  then  guided,  or  at  least 
held,  something  which  he  called  the  rudder  of  Government, 
but  which  was  rather  the  spigot  of  Taxation,  wherewith,  in 
place  of  steering,  he  could  tap,  and  the  more  cunningly  the 
nearer  the  lees,  —  will  pass  for  a  more  or  less  instructive 
Gazetteer,  but  will  no  longer  be  called  a  Historian. 

However,  the  Political  Historian,  were  his  work  performed 
with  all  conceivable  perfection,  can  accomplish  but  a  part, 
and  still  leaves  room  for  numerous  fellow-labourers.  Fore- 
most among  these  comes  the  Ecclesiastical  Historian ;  en- 
deavouring, with  catholic  or  sectarian  view,  to  trace  the 
progress  of  the  Church ;  of  that  portion  of  the  social  estab- 
lishments, which  respects  our  religious  condition ;  as  the 
other  portion  does  our  civil,  or  rather,  in  the  long-run,  our 
economical  condition.  Rightly  conducted,  this  department 
were  undoubtedly  the  more  important  of  the  two  ;  inasmuch 
as  it  concerns  us  more  to  understand  how  man's  moral  well- 
being  had  been  and  might  be  promoted,  than  to  understand 
in  the  like  sort  his  physical  well-being  ;  which  latter  is  ulti- 
mately the  aim  of  all  Political  arrangements.  For  the  phys- 
ically happiest  is  simply  the  safest,  the  strongest ;  and,  in  all 
conditions  of  Government,  Power  (whether  of  wealth,  as  in 
these  days,  or  of  arms  and  adherents  as  in  old  days)  is  the 
only  outward  emblem  and  purchase-money  of  Good.  True 
Good,  however,  unless  we  reckon  Pleasure  synonymous  with 
it,  is  said  to  be  rarely,  or  rather  never,  offered  for  sale  in  the 
market  where  that  coin  passes  current.  So  that,  for  man's 
true  advantage,  not  the  outward  condition  of  his  life,  hut  the 
inward  and  spiritual,  is  of  prime  influence  ;  not  the  form  of 
Government  he  lives  under,  and  the  power  he  can  accu- 
mulate there,  but  the  Church  he  is  a  member  of,  and  the 
degree  of  moral  elevation  he  can  acquire  by  means  of  its 
instruction.  Church  History,  then,  did  it  speak  wisely,  would 
have  momentous  secrets  to  teach  us :  nay,  in  its  highest  de- 


238 


MISCELLANIES. 


gree,  it  were  a  sort  of  continued  Holy  Writ ;  our  Sacred 
Books  being,  indeed,  only  a  History  of  the  primeval  Church, 
as  it  first  arose  in  man's  soul,  and  symbolically  embodied 
itself  in  his  external  life.  How  far  our  actual  Church  His- 
torians fall  below  such  unattainable  standards,  nay  below 
quite  attainable  approximations  thereto,  we  need  not  point 
out.  Of  the  Ecclesiastical  Historian  we  have  to  complain, 
as  we  did  of  his  Political  fellow-craftsman,  that  his  inquiries 
turn  rather  on  the  outward  mechanism,  the  mere  hulls  and 
superficial  accidents  of  the  object,  than  on  the  object  itself : 
as  if  the  Church  lay  in  Bishops'  Chapter-houses,  and  Ecu- 
menic Council-halls,  and  Cardinals'  Conclaves,  and  not  far 
more  in  the  hearts  of  Believing  Men  ;  in  whose  walk  and 
conversation,  as  influenced  thereby,  its  chief  manifestations 
were  to  be  looked  for,  and  its  progress  or  decline  ascertained. 
The  History  of  the  Church  is  a  History  of  the  Invisible  as 
well  as  of  the  Visible  Church  ;  which  latter,  if  disjoined 
from  the  former,  is  but  a  vacant  edifice  ;  gilded,  it  may  be, 
and  overhung  with  old  votive  gifts,  yet  useless,  nay  pestilen- 
tially unclean  ;  to  write  whose  history  is  less  important  than 
to  forward  its  downfall. 

Of  a  less  ambitious  character  are  the  Histories  that  relate 
to  special  separate  provinces  of  human  Action  ;  to  Sciences, 
Practical  Arts,  Institutions  and  the  like  ;  matters  which  do 
not  imply  an  epitome  of  man's  whole  interest  and  form  of 
life  ;  but  wherein,  though  each  is  still  connected  with  all, 
the  spirit  of  each,  at  least  its  material  results,  may  be  in 
some  degree  evolved  without  so  strict  a  reference  to  that  of 
the  others.  Highest  in  dignity  and  difficulty,  under  this 
head,  would  be  our  histories  of  Philosophy,  of  man's  opin- 
ions and  theories  respecting  the  nature  of  his  Being,  and 
relations  to  the  Universe  Visible  and  Invisible  :  which  His- 
tory, indeed,  were  it  fitly  treated,  or  fit  for  right  treatment, 
would  be  a  province  of  Church  History  ;  the  logical  or  dog- 
matical province  thereof ;  for  Philosophy,  in  its  true  sense,  is 
or  should  be  the  soul,  of  which  Religion,  Worship  is  the  body  ; 


ON  HISTORY. 


239 


in  the  healthy  state  "of  things  the  Philosopher  and  Priest 
were  one  and  the  same.  But  Philosophy  itself  is  far  enough 
from  wearing  this  character ;  neither  have  its  Historians  been 
men,  generally  speaking,  that  could  in  the  smallest  degree 
approximate  it  thereto.  Scarcely  since  the  rude  era  of  the 
Magi  and  Druids  has  that  same  healthy  identification  of 
Priest  and  Philosopher  had  place  in  any  country :  but  rather 
the  worship  of  divine  things,  and  the  scientific  investigation 
of  divine  things,  have  been  in  quite  different  hands,  their 
relations  not  friendly  but  hostile.  Neither  have  the  Briickers 
and  Biihles,  to  say  nothing  of  the  many  unhappy  Enfields 
who  have  treated  of  that  latter  department,  been  more  than 
barren  reporters,  often  unintelligent  and  unintelligible  report- 
ers, of  the  doctrine  uttered  ;  without  force  to  discover  how 
the  doctrine  originated,  or  what  reference  it  bore  to  its  time 
and  country,  to  the  spiritual  position  of  mankind  there  and 
then.  Nay,  such  a  task  did  not  perhaps  lie  before  them,  as 
a  thing  to  be  attempted. 

Art  also  and  Literature  are  intimately  blended  with  Relig- 
ion ;  as  it  were,  outworks  and  abutments,  by  which  that  high- 
est pinnacle  in  our  inward  world  gradually  connects  itself 
with  the  general  level,  and  becomes  accessible  therefrom. 
He  who  should  write  a  proper  History  of  Poetry,  would 
depict  for  us  the  successive  Revelations  which  man  had 
obtained  of  the  Spirit  of  Nature  ;  under  what  aspects  he 
had  caught  and  endeavoured  to  body  forth  some  glimpse  of 
that  unspeakable  Beauty,  which  in  its  highest  clearness  is 
Religion,  is  the  inspiration  of  a  Prophet,  yet  in  one  or  the 
other  degree  must  inspire  every  true  Singer,  were  his  theme 
never  so  humble.  We  should  see  by  what  steps  men  had 
ascended  to  the  Temple ;  how  near  they  had  approached ;  by 
what  ill  hap  they  had,  for  long  periods,  turned  away  from  it, 
and  grovelled  on  the  plain  with  no  music  in  the  air,  or  blind- 
ly struggled  towards  other  heights.  That  among  all  our 
Eichhorns  and  Wartons  there  is  no  such  Historian,  must  be 
too  clear  to  every  one.    Nevertheless  let  us  not  despair  of 


240 


MISCELLANIES. 


far  nearer  approaches  to  that  excellence.  Above  all,  let  us 
keep  the  Ideal  of  it  ever  in  our  eye  ;  for  thereby  alone  have 
we  even  a  chance  to  reach  it. 

Our  histories  of  Laws  and  Constitutions,  wherein  many  a 
Montesquieu  and  Hallara  has  laboured  with  acceptance,  are 
of  a  much  simpler  nature  ;  yet  deep  enough  if  thoroughly 
investigated  ;  and  useful,  when  authentic,  even  with  little 
depth.  Then  we  have  Histories  of  Medicine,  of  Mathe- 
matics, of  Astronomy,  Commerce,  Chivalry,  Monkery  ;  and 
Goguets  and  Beckmanns  have  come  forward  with  what 
might  be  the  most  bountiful  contribution  of  all,  a  History 
of  Inventions.  Of  all  which  sorts,  and  many  more  not 
here  enumerated,  not  yet  devised  and  put  in  practice,  the 
merit  and  the  proper  scheme  may  require  no  exposition. 

In  this  manner,  though,  as  above  remarked,  all  Action  is 
extended  three  ways,  and  the  general  sum  of  human  Action 
is  a  whole  Universe,  with  all  limits  of  it  unknown,  does 
History  strive  by  running  path  after  path,  through  the  Im- 
passable, in  manifold  directions  and  intersections,  to  secure 
for  us  some  oversight  of  the  Whole  ;  in  which  endeavour, 
if  each  Historian  look  well  around  him  from  his  path, 
tracking  it  out  with  the  eye,  not,  as  is  more  common,  with 
the  nose,  she  may  at  last  prove  not  altogether  unsuccessful. 
Praying  only  that  increased  division  of  labour  do  not  here, 
as  elsewhere,  aggravate  our  already  strong  Mechanical  ten- 
dencies, so  that  in  the  manual  dexterity  for  parts  we  lose  all 
command  over  the  whole,  and  the  hope  of  any  Philosophy 
of  History  be  farther  off  than  ever,  —  let  us  all  wish  her 
great  and  greater  success. 


LUTHER'S  PSALM. 


241 


LUTHER'S  PSALM.i 
[1831.] 

Among  Luther's  Spiritual  Songs,  of  which  various  col- 
lections have  appeared  of  late  years,2  the  one  entitled  Eine 
feste  Burg  ist  unser  Gott  is  universally  regarded  as  the  best; 
and  indeed  still  retains  its  place  and  devotional  use  in  the 
Psalmodies  of  Protestant  Germany.  Of  the  Tune,  which 
also  is  by  Luther,  we  have  no  copy,  and  only  a  secondhand 
knowledge  :  to  the  original  Words,  probably  never  before 
printed  in  England,  we  subjoin  the  following  Translation ; 
which,  if  it  possess  the  only  merit  it  can  pretend  to,  that 
of  literal  adherence  to  the  sense,  will  not  prove  unaccept- 
able to  our  readers.  Luther's  music  is  heard  daily  in  our 
churches,  several  of  our  finest  Psalm-tunes  being  of  his 
composition.  Luther's  sentiments  also  are,  or  should  be, 
present  in  many  an  English  heart ;  the  more  interesting 
to  us  is  any  the  smallest  articulate  expression  of  these. 

The  great  Reformer's  love  of  music,  of  poetry,  it  has  often 
been  remarked,  is  one  of  the  most  significant  features  in  his 
character.  But  indeed,  if  every  great  man,  Napoleon  him- 
self, is  intrinsically  a  poet,  an  idealist,  with  more  or  less 
completeness  of  utterance,  which  of  all  our  great  men,  in 
these  modern  ages,  had  such  an  endowment  in  that  kind  as 
Luther  ?  He  it  was,  emphatically,  who  stood  based  on  the 
Spiritual  World  of  man,  and  only  by  the  footing  and  mi- 

1  Fraser's  Magazine,  No.  12. 

2  For  example:  Luthers  Geislliche  Lieder,  nebst  dessen  Gedanken  iiber 
die  Musicn  (Berlin,  1817);  Die  Lieder  Lulhers  gesammelt  von  Kosegarlen 
und  Rambach ,  tf  c. 

VOL.  n.  16 


242 


MISCELLANIES. 


raculous  power  he  had  obtained  there,  could  work  such 
changes  in  the  Material  World.  As  a  participant  and  dis- 
penser of  divine  influences,  he  shows  himself  among  human 
affairs  ;  a  true  connecting  medium  and  visible  Messenger  be- 
tween Heaven  and  Earth ;  a  man,  therefore,  not  only  per- 
mitted to  enter  the  sphere  of  Poetry,  but  to  dwell  in  the 
purest  centre  thereof :  perhaps  the  most  inspired  of  all 
Teachers  since  the  first  Apostles  of  his  faith  ;  and  thus  not 
a  Poet  only,  but  a  Prophet  and  god-ordained  Priest,  which 
is  the  highest  form  of  that  dignity,  and  of  all  dignity. 

Unhappily,  or  happily,  Luther's  poetic  feeling  did  not  so 
much  learn  to  express  itself  in  fit  Words  that  take  captive 
every  ear,  as  in  fit  Actions,  wherein  truly,  under  still  more 
impressive  manifestation,  the  spirit  of  spheral  melody  re- 
sides, and  still  audibly  addresses  us.  In  his  written  Poems 
we  find  little,  save  that  strength  of  one  '  whose  words,'  it  has 
been  said,  '  were  half  battles ; '  little  of  that  still  harmony 
and  blending  softness  of  union,  which  is  the  last  perfection 
of  strength  ;  less  of  it  than  even  his  conduct  often  manifested. 
With  Words  he  had  not  learned  to  make  pure  music  ;  it  was 
by  Deeds  of  love  or  heroic  valour  that  he  spoke  freely ;  in 
tones,  only  through  his  Flute,  amid  tears,  could  the  sigh  of 
that  strong  soul  find  utterance. 

Nevertheless,  though  in  imperfect  articulation,  the  same 
voice,  if  we  will  listen  well,  is  to  be  heard  also  in  his  writ- 
ings, in  his  Poems.  The  following,  for  example,  jars  upon 
our  ears  :  yet  there  is  something  in  it  like  the  sound  of 
Alpine  avalanches,  or  the  first  murmur  of  earthquakes ;  in 
the  very  vastness  of  which  dissonance  a  higher  unison  is 
revealed  to  us.  Luther  wrote  this  Song  in  a  time  of  black- 
est threatenings,  which  however  could  in  nowise  become  a 
time  of  despair.  In  those  tones,  rugged,  broken  as  they  are, 
do  we  not  recognise  the  accent  of  that  summoned  man  (sum- 
moned not  by  Charles  the  Fifth,  but  by  God  Almighty  also), 
who  answered  his  friends'  warning  not  to  enter  Worms,  in 
this  wise  :  "  Were  there  as  many  devils  in  Worms  as  there 


LUTHER'S  PSALM. 


243 


are  roof-tiles,  I  would  on ;  "  —  of  him  who,  alone  in  that 
assemblage,  before  all  emperors  and  principalities  and 
powers,  spoke  forth  these  final  and  forever  memorable 
words  :  "  It  is  neither  safe  nor  prudent  to  do  aught  against 
conscience.  Here  stand  I,  I  cannot  otherwise.  God  assist 
me.  Amen  !  " 1  It  is  evident  enough  that  to  this  man  all 
Pope's  Conclaves,  and  Imperial  Diets,  and  hosts  and  na- 
tions, were  but  weak ;  weak  as  the  forest,  with  all  its  strong 
trees,  may  be  to  the  smallest  spark  of  electric  fire. 

EINE  FESTE  BURG  1ST  UNSER  GOTT. 

Einefeste  Burg  ist  unser  Gott, 
Ein  gutes  Wthr  und  Waffen  ; 
Er  hilft  uns  frey  aus  aller  Noth, 
Die  unsjetzt  hat  betroffen. 
Der  alte  bose  Feind, 
Mil  Ernst  ersjetzt  meint  ; 
Gross  Macht  unci  viel  List 
Sein  Grausam'  Riistzeuch  ist, 
Auf  ErcVn  ist  nicht  seins  Gleichen. 

Mit  unsrer  Macht  ist  Nichts  getkan, 
Wir  sincl  gar  bald  verbren : 
Es  streift  fiir  uns  der  rechte  Mann, 
Den  Gott  selbst  hat  erhoren. 
Fragst  du  wer  er  ist  ? 
Er  heisst  Jesus  Christ, 
Der  Herre  Zebaoth, 
Und  ist  hein  under  Gott, 
Das  Feld  muss  er  behalten. 

Und  wenn  die  Welt  voll  Teufel  loar, 

Und  icolWn  uns  gar  versehlingen, 
So  fiirchten  wir  uns  nicht  so  sehr, 
Es  soli  uns  doch  gelingen. 
Der  Filrste  dieser  Welt, 

Wie  sauer  er  sich  stelll, 

Thut  er  uns  doch  Nichts; 
Das  macht  er  ist  gerichtt, 
Ein  Wbrtlein  kann  ihn  fallen. 

i  '  Till  such  time  as,  either  by  proofs  from  Holy  Scripture,  or  by  fair 
'reason  or  argument,  I  have  been  confuted  and  convicted,  I  cannot  and 
'  will  not  recant,  well  iceder  sicher  noch  gerathen  ist,  etwas  icider  Gewissen 
'  zu  thun.    Bier  slehe  ich,  ich  kann  nicht  anders.    Gott  helfe  mir.    Amen  ! ' 


244 


MISCELLANIES. 


Das  Wort  sie  sollen  lassen  stahn, 

Unci  Jceinen  Dank  dazu  haben  ; 

Er  isl  bey  uns  wohl  auf  dem  Plan 

Mit  seinem  Geist  unci  Gaben. 

Nehmen  sie  uns  den  Leib, 

Gut\  Elir' ,  Kind  und  IVeib, 

Lass  fahrm  dahin. 

Sie  haben7 s  kein  Geivinn, 

Das  Reich  Gottes  muss  uns  bleiben. 

A  safe  stronghold  our  God  is  still, 
A  trusty  shield  and  weapon ; 
He'll  help  us  clear  from  all  the  ill 
That  hath  us  now  o'ertaken. 
The  ancient  Prince  of  Hell 
Hath  risen  with  purpose  fell ; 
Strong  mail  of  Craft  and  Power 
He  weareth  in  this  hour, 
On  Earth  is  not  his  fellow. 

With  force  of  arms  we  nothing  can, 
Full  soon  were  we  down-ridden; 
But  for  us  fights  the  proper  Man, 
Whom  God  himself  hath  bidden. 
Ask  ye,  Who  is  this  same? 
Christ  Jesus  is  his  name, 
The  Lord  Zebaoth's  Son, 
He  and  no  other  one 
Shall  conquer  In  the  battle. 

And  were  this  world  all  Devils  o'er, 
And  watching  to  devour  us, 
We  lay  it  not  to  heart  so  sore, 
Not  they  can  overpower  us. 
And  let  the  Prince  of  111 
Look  grim  as  e'er  he  will, 
He  harms  us  not  a  whit; 
For  why  '?   His  doom  is  writ : 
A  word  shall  quickly  slay  him. 

God's  Word,  for  all  their  craft  and  force, 

One  moment  will  not  linger, 

But  spite  of  Hell,  shall  have  its  course, 

And  though  they  take  our  life, 
Goods,  honour,  children,  wife, 
Yet  is  their  profit  small? 
These  things  shall  vanish  all, 
The  City  of  God  remaineth. 


SCHILLER. 


245 


SCHILLER.1 
[1831.] 

To  the  student  of  German  Literature,  or  of  Literature  in 
general,  these  Volumes,  purporting  to  lay  open  the  private 
intercourse  of  two  men  eminent  beyond  all  others  of  their 
time  in  that  department,  will  doubtless  be  a  welcome  appear- 
ance. Neither  Schiller  nor  Goethe  has  ever,  that  we  have 
hitherto  seen,  written  worthlessly  on  any  subject ;  and  the 
writings  here  offered  us  are  confidential  Letters,  relating 
moreover  to  a  highly  important  period  in  the  spiritual  his- 
tory, not  only  of  the  parties  themselves,  but  of  their  country 
likewise  ;  full  of  topics,  high  and  low,  on  which  far  meaner 
talents  than  theirs  might  prove  interesting.  We  have  heard 
and  known  so  much  of  both  these  venerated  persons  ;  of  their 
friendship,  and  true  cooperation  in  so  many  noble  endeavours, 
the  fruit  of  which  has  long  been  plain  to  every  one :  and  now 
are  we  to  look  into  the  secret  constitution  and  conditions  of 
all  this ;  to  trace  the  public  result,  which  is  Ideal,  down  to  its 
roots  in  the  Common  ;  how  Poets  may  live  and  work  poeti- 
cally among  the  Prose  things  of  this  world,  and  Fausts  and 
Tells  be  written  on  rag-paper  and  with  goose-quills,  like  mere 
Minerva  Novels,  and  Songs  by  a  Person  of  Quality  !  Virtu- 
osos have  glass  bee-hives,  which  they  curiously  peep  into  ; 
but  here  truly  were  a  far  stranger  sort  of  honey-making. 

i  Fraser"s  Magazine,  No.  14.  —  Briefwechsel  zwhchen  Schiller  und 
Goethe,  in  den  Jahren  1794  bis  1805  (Correspondence  between  Schiller  and 
Goethe,  in  the  years  1794-1805).  lst-3d  Volumes  (1794-1797).  Stuttgart 
and  Tubingen,  1828-9. 


246 


MISCELLANIES. 


Nay,  apart  from  virtuosoship,  or  any  technical  object,  what  a 
hold  have  such  things  on  our  universal  curiosity  as  men !  If 
the  sympathy  we  feel  with  one  another  is  infinite,  or  nearly 
so,  —  in  proof  of  which,  do  but  consider  the  boundless  ocean 
of  Gossip  (imperfect,  undistilled  Biography)  which  is  emitted 
and  imbibed  by  the  human  species  daily  ;  —  if  every  secret- 
history,  every  closed-doors  conversation,  how  trivial  soever, 
has  an  interest  for  us  ;  then  might  the  conversation  of  a 
Schiller  with  a  Goethe,  so  rarely  do  Schillers  meet  with 
Goethes  among  us,  tempt  Honesty  itself  into  eaves-dropping. 

Unhappily  the  conversation  flits  away  forever  with  the 
hour  that  witnessed  it ;  and  the  Letter  and  Answer,  frank, 
lively,  genial  as  they  may  be,  are  only  a  poor  emblem  and 
epitome  of  it.  The  living  dramatic  movement  is  gone  ;  noth- 
ing but  the  cold  historical  net-product  remains  for  us.  It  is 
true,  in  every  confidential  Letter,  the  writer  will,  in  some 
measure,  more  or  less  directly  depict  himself :  but  nowhere  is 
Painting,  by  pen  or  pencil,  so  inadequate  as  in  delineating 
Spiritual  Nature.  The  Pyramid  can  be  measured  in  geomet- 
ric feet,  and  the  draughtsman  represents  it,  with  all  its  envi- 
ronment, on  canvas,  accurately  to  the  eye ;  nay,  Mont-Blanc 
is  embossed  in  coloured  stucco ;  and  we  have  his  very  type, 
and  miniature  fac-simile,  in  our  museums.  But  for  great 
Men,  let  him  who  would  know  such,  pray  that  he  may  see 
them  daily  face  to  face :  for  in  the  dim  distance,  and  by  the 
eye  of  the  imagination,  our  vision,  do  what  we  may,  will  be 
too  imperfect.  How  pale,  thin,  ineffectual  do  the  great 
figures  we  would  fain  summon  from  History  rise  before  us ! 
Scarcely  as  palpable  men  does  our  utmost  effort  body  them 
forth  ;  oftenest  only  like  Ossian's  ghosts,  in  hazy  twilight, 
with  'stars  dim  twinkling  through  their  forms.'  Our  So- 
crates, our  Luther,  after  all  that  we  have  talked  and  argued 
of  them,  are  to  most  of  us  quite  invisible  ;  the  Sage  of 
Athens,  the  Monk  of  Eisleben  ;  not  Persons,  but  Titles. 
Yet  such  men,  far  more  than  any  Alps  or  Coliseums  are  the 
true  world-wonders,  which  it  concerns  us  to  behold  clearly, 


SCHILLEE. 


247 


and  imprint  forever,  on  our  remembrance.  Great  men  are 
the  Fire-pillars  in  this  dark  pilgrimage  of  mankind ;  they 
stand  as  heavenly  Signs,  everliving  witnesses  of  what  has 
been,  prophetic  tokens  of  what  may  still  be,  the  revealed, 
embodied  Possibilities  of  human  nature  ;  which  greatness  he 
who  has  never  seen,  or  rationally  conceived  of,  and  with  his 
whole  heart  passionately  loved  and  reverenced,  is  himself 
forever  doomed  to  be  little.  How  many  weighty  reasons, 
how  many  innocent  allurements  attract  our  curiosity  to  such 
men  !  We  would  know  them,  see  them  visibly,  even  as  we 
know  and  see  our  like :  no  hint,  no  notice  that  concerns  them 
is  superfluous  or  too  small  for  us.  Were  Gullivers  Con- 
juror but  here,  to  recall  and  sensibly  bring  back  the  brave 
Past,  that  we  might  look  into  it,  and  scrutinise  it  at  will ! 
But  alas,  in  Nature  there  is  no  such  conjuring :  the  great 
spirits  that  have  gone  before  us  can  survive  only  as  disem- 
bodied Voices  ;  their  form  and  distinctive  aspect,  outward  and 
even  in  many  respects  inward,  all  whei-eby  they  were  known 
as  living,  breathing  men,  has  passed  into  another  sphere; 
from  which  only  History,  in  scanty  memorials,  can  evoke 
some  faint  resemblance  of  it.  The  more  precious,  in  spite 
of  all  imperfections,  is  such  History,  are  such  memorials, 
that  still  in  some  degree  preserve  what  had  otherwise  been 
lost  without  recovery. 

For  the  rest,  as  to  the  maxim,  often  enough  inculcated  on 
us,  that  close  inspection  will  abate  our  admiration,  that  only 
the  obscure  can  be  sublime,  let  us  put  small  faith  in  it.  Here, 
as  in  other  provinces,  it  is  not  knowledge,  but  a  little  knowl- 
edge, that  puffeth  up,  and  for  wonder  at  the  thing  known  sub- 
stitutes mere  wonder  at  the  knower  thereof :  to  a  sciolist,  the 
starry  heavens  revolving  in  dead  mechanism  may  be  less 
than  a  Jacob's  vision  ;  but  to  the  Newton  they  are  more  ;  for 
the  same  God  still  dwells  enthroned  there,  and  holy  Influ- 
ences, like  Angels,  still  ascend  and  descend ;  and  this  clearer 
vision  of  a  little  but  renders  the  remaining  mystery  the 
deeper  and  more  divine.    So  likewise  is  it  with  true  spirr 


248 


MISCELLANIES. 


itual  greatness.  On  the  whole,  that  theory  of  '  no  man  being 
a  hero  to  his  valet,'  carries  us  but  a  little  way  into  the  real 
nature  of  the  case.  With  a  superficial  meaning  which  is 
plain  enough,  it  essentially  holds  good  only  of  such  heroes 
as  are  false,  or  else  of  such  valets  as  are  too  genuine,  as  are 
shoulder-knotted  and  brass-lackered  in  soul  as  well  as  in 
body  :  of  other  sorts  it  does  not  hold.  Milton  was  still  a 
hero  to  the  good  Elwood.  But  we  dwell  not  on  that  mean 
doctrine,  which,  true  or  false,  may  be  left  to  itself  the  more 
safely,  as  in  practice  it  is  of  little  or  no  immediate  import. 
For  were  it  never  so  true,  yet  unless  we  preferred  huge 
bugbears  to  small  realities,  our  practical  course  were  still  the 
same  :  to  inquire,  to  investigate  by  all  methods,  till  we  saw 
clearly. 

What  worth  in  this  biographical  point  of  view  the  Corres- 
pondence of  Schiller  and  Goethe  may  have,  we  shall  not 
attempt  determining  here  ;  the  rather  as  only  a  portion  of 
the  Work,  and  to  judge  by  the  space  of  time  included  in  it, 
only  a  small  portion,  is  yet  before  us.  Nay  perhaps  its  full 
worth  will  not  become  apparent  till  a  future  age,  when  the 
persons  and  concerns  it  treats  of  shall  have  assumed  their 
proper  relative  magnitude,  and  stand  disencumbered,  and 
forever  separated  from  contemporary  trivialities,  which,  for 
the  present,  with  their  hollow  transient  bulk,  so  mar  our  esti- 
mate. Two  centuries  ago,  Leicester  and  Es.-ex  might  be  the 
wonders  of  England  ;  their  Kenilworth  Festivities  and  Cadiz 
Expeditions  seemed  the  great  occurrences  of  that  day  ;  — 
but  what  would  Ave  now  give,  were  these  all  forgotten,  and 
some  '  Correspondence  between  Shakspeare  and  Ben  Jon- 
son  '  suddenly  brought  to  light ! 

One  valuable  quality  these  Letters  of  Schiller  and  Goethe 
everywhere  exhibit,  that  of  truth  :  whatever  we  do  learn 
from  them,  whether  in  the  shape  of  fact  or  of  opinion,  may 
be  relied  on  as  genuine.  There  is  a  tone  of  entire  sincerity 
in  that  style  :  a  constant  natural  courtesy  nowhere  obstructs 
the  right  freedom  of  word  or  thought ;  indeed,  no  ends  but 


SCHILLER. 


249 


honourable  ones,  and*  generally  of  a  mutual  interest,  are  be- 
fore either  party  ;  thus  neither  needs  to  veil,  still  less  to  mask 
himself  from  the  other  ;  the  two  self-portraits,  so  far  as  they 
are  filled  up,  may  be  looked  upon  as  real  likenesses.  Per- 
haps, to  most  readers,  some  larger  intermixture  of  what  we 
should  call  domestic  interest,  of  ordinary  human  concerns, 
and  the  hopes,  fears  and  other  feelings  these  excite,  would 
have  improved  the  Work  ;  which  as  it  is,  not  indeed  without 
pleasant  exceptions,  turns  mostly  on  compositions,  and  pub- 
lications, and  philosophies,  and  other  such  high  matters. 
This,  we  believe,  is  a  rare  fault  in  modem  Corresponden- 
ces ;  where  generally  the  opposite  fault  is  complained  of, 
and  except  mere  temporalities,  good  and  evil  hap  of  the 
corresponding  parties,  their  state  of  purse,  heart  and  ner- 
vous system,  and  the  moods  and  humours  these  give  rise  to, 
—  little  stands  recorded  for  us.  It  may  be,  too,  that  native 
readers  will  feel  such  a  want  less  than  foreigners  do,  whose 
curiosity  in  this  instance  is  equally  minute,  and  to  whom  so 
many  details,  familiar  enough  in  the  country  itself,  must  be 
unknown.  At  all  events,  it  is  to  be  remembered  that  Schiller 
and  Goethe  are,  in  strict  speech,  Literary  Men  ;  for  whom 
their  social  life  is  only  as  the  dwelling-place  and  outward 
tabernacle  of  their  spiritual  life  ;  which  latter  is  the  one 
thing  needful ;  the  other,  except  in  subserviency  to  this, 
meriting  no  attention,  or  the  least  possible.  Besides,  as 
cultivated  men,  perhaps  even  by  natural  temper,  they  are 
not  in  the  habit  of  yielding  to  violent  emotions  of  any  kind, 
still  less  of  unfolding  and  depicting  such,  by  letter,  even  to 
closest  intimates  ;  a  turn  of  mind  which,  if  it  diminished  the 
warmth  of  their  epistolary  intercourse,  must  have  increased 
their  private  happiness,  and  so,  by  their  friends,  can  hardly 
be  regretted.  He  who  wears  his  heart  on  his  sleeve,  will 
often  have  to  lament  aloud  that  daws  peck  at  it :  he  who  does 
not,  will  spare  himself  such  lamenting.  Of  Rousseau  Con- 
fessions, whatever  value  we  assign  that  sort  of  ware,  there 
is  no  vestige  in  this  Correspondence. 


250 


MISCELLANIES. 


Meanwhile,  many  cheerful,  honest  little  domestic  touches 
are  given  here  and  there  ;  which  we  can  accept  gladly,  with 
no  worse  censure  than  wishing  that  there  had  been  more. 
But  this  Correspondence  has  another  and  more  proper  aspect, 
under  which,  if  rightly  considered,  it  possesses  a  far  higher 
interest  than  most  domestic  delineations  could  have  imparted. 
It  shows  us  two  high,  creative,  truly  poetic  minds,  unweariedly 
cultivating  themselves,  unweariedly  advancing  from  one  mea- 
sure of  strength  and  clearness  to  another ;  whereby  to  such 
as  travel,  we  say  not  on  the  same  road,  for  this  few  can  do, 
but  in  the  same  direction,  as  all  should  do,  the  richest  psycho- 
logical and  practical  lesson  is  laid  out ;  from  which  men  of 
every  intellectual  degree  may  learn  something,  and  he  that  is 
of  the  highest  degree  will  probably  learn  the  most.  What 
value  lies  in  this  lesson,  moreover,  may  be  expected  to  in- 
crease in  an  increasing  ratio  as  the  Correspondence  proceeds, 
and  a  larger  space,  with  broader  differences  of  advancement, 
comes  into  view  ;  especially  as  respects  Schiller,  the  younger 
and  more  susceptive  of  the  two ;  for  whom,  in  particular, 
these  eleven  years  may  be  said  to  comprise  the  most  im- 
portant era  of  his  culture ;  indeed,  the  whole  history  of  his 
progress  therein,  from  the  time  when  he  first  found  the  right 
path,  and  properly  became  progressive. 

But  to  enter  farther  on  the  merits  and  special  qualities  of 
these  Letters,  which,  on  all  hands,  will  be  regarded  as  a 
publication  of  real  value,  both  intrinsic  and  extrinsic,  is  not 
our  task  now.  Of  the  frank,  kind,  mutually-respectful  rela- 
tion that  manifests  itself  between  the  two  Correspondents ; 
of  their  several  epistolary  styles,  and  the  worth  of  each,  and 
whatever  else  characterises  this  Work  as  a  series  of  bio- 
graphical documents,  or  of  philosophical  views,  we  may  at 
some  future  period  have  occasion  to  speak :  certain  detached 
speculations  and  indications  will  of  themselves  come  before 
us  in  the  course  of  our  present  undertaking.  Meanwhile,  to 
British  readers,  the  chief  object  is  not  the  Letters,  but  the 
Writers  of  them.    Of  Goethe  the  public  already  know  some- 


SCHILLER. 


251 


thing :  of  Schiller  less  is  known,  and  our  wish  is  to  bring 
him  into  closer  approximation  with  our  readers. 

Indeed,  had  we  considered  only  his  importance  in  German, 
or  we  may  now  say,  in  European  Literature,  Schiller  might 
well  have  demanded  an  earlier  notice  in  our  Journal.  As  a 
man  of  true  poetical  and  philosophical  genius,  who  proved 
this  high  endowment  both  in  his  conduct,  and  by  a  long  series 
of  Writings  which  manifest  it  to  all ;  nay,  even  as  a  man  so 
eminently  admired  by  his  nation,  while  he  lived,  and  whose 
fame,  there  and  abroad,  during  the  twenty-five  years  since 
his  decease,  has  been  constantly  expanding  and  confirming 
itself,  he  appears  with  such  claims  as  can  belong  only  to  a 
small  number  of  men.  If  we  have  seemed  negligent  of 
Schiller,  want  of  affection  was  nowise  the  cause.  Our  ad- 
miration for  him  is  of  old  standing,  and  has  not  abated,  as  it 
ripened  into  calm  loving  estimation.  But  to  English  ex- 
positors of  Foreign  Literature,  at  this  epoch,  there  will  be 
many  more  pressing  duties  than  that  of  expounding  Schiller. 
To  a  considerable  extent,  Schiller  may  be  said  to  expound 
himself.  His  greatness  is  of  a  simple  kind  ;  his  manner  of 
displaying  it  is,  for  most  part,  apprehensible  to  every  one. 
Besides,  of  all  German  Writers,  ranking  in  any  such  class 
as  his,  Klopstock  scarcely  excepted,  he  has  the  least  national- 
ity :  his  character  indeed  is  German,  if  German  mean  true, 
earnest,  nobly-humane  ;  but  his  mode  of  thought,  and  mode 
of  utterance,  all  but  the  mere  vocables  of  it,  are  European. 
Accordingly,  it  is  to  be  observed,  no  German  Writer  has  had 
such  acceptance  with  foreigners  ;  has  been  so  instantaneously 
admitted  into  favour,  at  least  any  favour  which  proved  per- 
manent. Among  the  French,  for  example,  Schiller  is  almost 
naturalised  ;  translated,  commented  upon,  by  men  of  whom 
Constant  is  one  ;  even  brought  upon  the  stage,  and  by  a  large 
class  of  critics  vehemently  extolled  there.  Indeed,  to  the 
Romanticist  class,  in  all  countries,  Schiller  is  naturally  the 
pattern  man  and  great  master ;  as  it  were,  a  sort  of  ambas- 
sador and  mediator,  were  mediation  possible,  between  the. 


252 


MISCELLANIES. 


Old  School  and  the  New ;  pointing  to  his  own  Works,  as  to 
a  glittering  bridge,  that  will  lead  pleasantly  from  the  Ver- 
sailles gardening  and  artificial  hydraulics  of  the  one,  into  the 
true  Ginnistan  and  Wonderland  of  the  other.  With  our- 
selves too,  who  are  troubled  with  no  controversies  on  Roman- 
ticism and  Classicism,  —  the  Bowles  controversy  on  Pope 
having  long  since  evaporated  without  result,  and  all  critical 
guild-brethren  now  working  diligently,  with  one  accord,  in 
the  calmer  sphere  of  Vapidism,  or  even  Nullism,  —  Schiller 
is  no  less  universally  esteemed  by  persons  of  any  feeling  for 
poetry.  To  readers  of  German,  and  these  are  increasing 
everywhere  a  hundred-fold,  he  is  one  of  the  earliest  studies  ; 
and  the  dullest  cannot  study  him  without  some  perception  of 
his  beauties.  For  the  Un-German,  again,  we  have  Trans- 
lations in  abundance  and  superabundance  ;  through  which, 
under  whatever  distortion,  however  shorn  of  his  beams,  some 
image  of  this  poetical  sun  must  force  itself ;  and  in  susceptive 
hearts  awaken  love,  and  a  desire  for  more  immediate  insight. 
So  that  now,  we  suppose,  anywhere  in  England,  a  man  who 
denied  that  Schiller  was  a  Poet  would  himself  be,  from  every 
side,  declared  a  Prosaist,  and  thereby  summarily  enough  put 
to  silence. 

All  which  being  so,  the  weightiest  part  of  our  duty,  that 
of  preliminary  pleading  for  Schiller,  of  asserting  rank  and 
excellence  for  him  while  a  stranger,  and  to  judges  suspicious 
of  counterfeits,  is  taken  off  our  hands.  The  knowledge  of 
his  works  is  silently  and  rapidly  proceeding;  in  the  only  way 
by  which  true  knowledge  can  be  attained,  by  loving  study  of 
them  in  many  an  inquiring,  candid  mind.  Moreover,  as  re- 
marked above,  Schiller's  works,  generally  speaking,  require 
little  commentary :  for  a  man  of  such  excellence,  for  a  true 
Poet,  we  should  say  that  his  worth  lies  singularly  open  ;  nay, 
in  great  part  of  his  writings,  beyond  such  open,  universally 
recognisable  worth,  there  is  no  other  to  be  sought. 

Yet  doubtless  if  he  is  a  Poet,  a  genuine  interpreter  of  the 
Invisible,  Criticism  will  have  a  greater  duty  to  discharge  for 


SCHILLER. 


253 


him.  Every  Poet,  be  his  outward  lot  what  it  may,  finds  him- 
self born  in  the  midst  of  Prose ;  he  has  to  struggle  from  the 
littleness  and  obstruction  of  an  Actual  world,  into  the  freedom 
and  infinitude  of  an  Ideal ;  and  the  history  of  such  struggle, 
which  is  the  history  of  his  life,  cannot  be  other  than  instruc- 
tive. His  is  a  high,  laborious,  unrequited,  or  only  self-re- 
quited endeavour ;  which,  however,  by  the  law  of  his  being, 
he  is  compelled  to  undertake,  and  must  prevail  in,  or  be  per- 
manently wretched ;  nay  the  more  wretched,  the  nobler  his 
gifts  are.  For  it  is  the  deep,  inborn  claim  of  his  whole  spirit- 
ual nature,  and  will  not  and  must  not  go  unanswered.  His 
youthful  unrest,  that  '  unrest  of  genius,'  often  so  wayward  in 
its  character,  is  the  dim  anticipation  of  this ;  the  mysterious, 
all-powerful  mandate,  as  from  Heaven,  to  prepare  himself, 
to  purify  himself,  for  the  vocation  wherewith  he  is  called. 
And  yet  how  few  can  fulfil  this  mandate,  how  few  earnestly 
give  heed  to  it !  Of  the  thousand  jingling  dilettanti,  whose 
jingle  dies  with  the  hour  which  it  harmlessly  or  hurtfully 
amused,  we  say  nothing  here :  to  these,  as  to  the  mass  of 
men,  such  calls  for  spiritual  perfection  speak  only  in  whispers, 
drowned  without  difficulty  in  the  din  and  dissipation  of  the 
world.  But  even  for  the  Byron,  for  the  Burns,  whose  ear  is 
quick  for  celestial  messages,  in  whom  '  speaks  the  prophesy- 
ing spirit,'  in  awful  prophetic  voice,  how  hard  is  it  to  '  take 
no  counsel  with  flesh  and  blood,'  and  instead  of  living  and 
writing  for  the  Day  that  passes  over  them,  live  and  write  for 
the  Eternity  that  rests  and  abides  over  them  ;  instead  of  liv- 
ing commodiously  in  the  Half,  the  Reputable,  the  Plausible, 
'  to  five  resolutely  in  the  Whole,  the  Good,  the  True  ! ' 1  Such 
Halfness,  such  halting  between  two  opinions,  such  painful, 
altogether  fruitless  negotiating  between  Truth  and  Falsehood, 
has  been  the  besetting  sin,  and  chief  misery,  of  mankind  in 
all  ages.  Nay  in  our  age,  it  has  christened  itself  Moderation, 
a  prudent  taking  of  the  middle  course  ;  and  passes  current 
among  us  as  a  virtue.  How  virtuous  it  is,  the  withered  con- 
1  Im  Ganzen,  Guten,  Wahren  resolut  zu  leben.  Goethe. 


254 


MISCELLANIES. 


dition  of  many  a  once  ingenuous  nature  that  has  lived  by 
this  method ;  the  broken  or  breaking  heart  of  many  a  noble 
nature  that  could  not  live  by  it,  —  speak  aloud,  did  we  but 
listen. 

And  now  when,  from  among  so  many  shipwrecks  and  mis- 
ventures,  one  goodly  vessel  comes  to  land,  we  joyfully  survey 
its  rich  cargo,  and  hasten  to  question  the  crew  on  the  for- 
tunes of  their  voyage.  Among  the  crowd  of  uncultivated  and 
miscultivated  writers,  the  high,  pure  Schiller  stands  before  us 
with  a  like  distinction.  We  ask :  How  was  this  man  success- 
ful ?  From  what  peculiar  point  of  view  did  he  attempt  pene- 
trating the  secret  of  spiritual  Nature  ?  From  what  region  of 
Prose  rise  into  Poetry  ?  Under  what  outward  accidents ;  with 
what  inward  faculties  ;  by  what  methods  ;  with  what  result  ? 

For  any  thorough  or  final  answer  to  such  questions,  it  is 
evident  enough,  neither  our  own  means,  nor  the  present  sit- 
uation of  our  readers  in  regard  to  this  matter,  are  in  any 
measure  adequate.  Nevertheless,  the  imperfect  beginning 
must  be  made  before  the  perfect  result  can  appear.  Some 
slight  far-off  glance  over  the  character  of  the  man,  as  he 
looked  and  lived,  in  Action  and  in  Poetry,  will  not,  per- 
haps, be  unacceptable  from  us :  for  such  as  know  little  of 
Schiller,  it  may  be  an  opening  of  the  way  to  better  knowl- 
edge ;  for  such  as  are  already  familiar  with  him,  it  may  be 
a  stating  in  words  of  what  they  themselves  have  often 
thought,  and  welcome,  therefore,  as  the  confirming  testi- 
mony of  a  second  witness. 

Of  Schiller's  personal  history  there  are  accounts  in  vari- 
ous accessible  publications  ;  so  that,  we  suppose,  no  formal 
Narrative  of  his  Life,  which  may  now  be  considered  gener- 
ally known,  is  necessary  here.  Such  as  are  curious  on  the 
subject,  and  still  uninformed,  may  find  some  satisfaction  in 
the  Life  of  Schiller  (London,  1824)  ;  in  the  Vie  de  Schiller, 
prefixed  to  the  French  Translation  of  his  Dramatic  Works ; 
in  the  Account  of  Schiller,  prefixed  to  the  English  Transla- 
tion of  his  Thirty- Years  War  (Edinburgh,  1828)  ;  and, 


SCHILLER. 


255 


doubtless,  in  many  other  Essays,  known  to  us  only  by  title. 
Nay  in  the  survey  we  propose  to  make  of  his  character, 
practical  as  well  as  speculative,  the  main  facts  of  his  out- 
ward history  will  of  themselves  come  to  light. 

Schiller's  Life  is  emphatically  a  literary  one ;  that  of  a 
man  existing  only  for  Contemplation ;  guided  forward  by 
the  pursuit  of  ideal  things,  and  seeking  and  finding  his  true 
welfare  therein.  A  singular  simplicity  characterises  it,  a 
remoteness  from  whatever  is  called  business ;  an  aversion 
to  the  tumults  of  business,  an  indifference  to  its  prizes, 
grows  with  him  from  year  to  year.  He  holds  no  office  ; 
scarcely  for  a  little  while  an  University  Professorship ;  he 
covets  no  promotion ;  has  no  stock  of  money ;  and  shows 
no  discontent  with  these  arrangements.  Nay  when  per- 
manent sickness,  continual  pain  of  body,  is  added  to  them, 
he  still  seems  happy :  these  last  fifteen  years  of  his  life  are, 
spiritually  considered,  the  clearest  and  most  productive  of 
all.  We  might  say,  there  is  something  priest-like  in  that 
Life  of  his  :  under  quite  another  colour  and  environment, 
yet  with  aims  differing  in  form  rather  than  in  essence,  it 
has  a  priest-like  stillness,  a  priest-like  purity ;  nay,  if  for 
the  Catholic  Faith  we  substitute  the  Ideal  of  Art,  and  for 
Convent  Rules,  Moral  or  Esthetic  Laws,  it  has  even  some- 
thing of  a  monastic  character.  By  the  three  monastic  vows 
he  was  not  bound  :  yet  vows  of  as  high  and  difficult  a  kind, 
both  to  do  and  to  forbear,  he  had  taken  on  him  ;  and  his 
happiness  and  whole  business  lay  in  observing  them.  Thus 
immured,  not  in  cloisters  of  stone  and  mortar,  yet  in  cloisters 
of  the  mind,  which  separate  him  as  impassably  from  the 
vulgar,  he  works  and  meditates  only  on  what  we  may  call 
Divine  things  ;  his  familiar  talk,  his  very  recreations,  the 
whole  actings  and  fancyings  of  his  daily  existence,  tend 
thither. 

As  in  the  life  of  a  Holy  Man  too,  so  in  that  of  Schiller, 
there  is  but  one  great  epoch :  that  of  taking  on  him  thes_e 


256 


MISCELLANIES. 


Literary  Vows ;  of  finally  extricating  himself  from  the  dis- 
tractions of  the  world,  and  consecrating  his  whole  future 
days  to  Wisdom.  What  lies  before  this  epoch,  and  what 
lies  after  it,  have  two  altogether  different  characters. 
The  former  is  worldly,  and  occupied  with  worldly  vicissi- 
tudes ;  the  latter  is  spiritual,  of  calm  tenour ;  marked  to 
himself  only  by  his  growth  in  inward  clearness,  to  the  world 
only  by  the  peaceable  fruits  of  this.  It  is  to  the  first  of 
these  periods  that  we  shall  here  chiefly  direct  ourselves. 

In  his  parentage,  and  the  circumstances  of  his  earlier 
years,  we  may  reckon  him  fortunate.  His  parents,  indeed, 
are  not  rich,  nor  even  otherwise  independent :  yet  neither 
are  they  meanly  poor ;  and  warm  affection,  a  true  honest 
character,  ripened  in  both  into  religion,  not  without  an  open- 
ness for  knowledge,  and  even  considerable  intellectual  cul- 
ture, makes  amends  for  every  defect.  The  Boy,  too,  is 
himself  of  a  character  in  which,  to  the  observant,  lies  the 
richest  promise.  A  modest,  still  nature,  apt  for  all  instruc- 
tion in  heart  or  head ;  flashes  of  liveliness,  of  impetuosity, 
from  time  to  time  breaking  through.  That  little  anecdote 
of  the  Thunder-storm  is  so  graceful  in  its  littleness,  that  one 
cannot  but  hope  it  may  be  authentic. 

'Once,  it  is  said,  during  a  tremendous  thunder-storm,  his  father 
missed  him  in  the  young  group  within  doors ;  none  of  the  sisters 
could  tell  what  was  become  of  Fritz,  and  the  old  man  grew  at  length 
so  anxious  that  he  was  forced  to  go  out  in  quest  of  him.  Fritz  was 
scarcely  past  the  age  of  infancy,  and  knew  not  the  dangers  of  a  scene 
so  awful.  His  father  found  him  at  last,  in  a  solitary  place  of  the 
neighbourhood,  perched  on  the  branch  of  a  tree,  gazing  at  the  tem- 
pestuous face  of  the  sky,  and  watching  the  flashes  as  in  succession 
they  spread  their  lurid  gleam  over  it.  To  the  reprimands  of  his 
parent,  the  whimpering  truant  pleaded  in  extenuation,  "  that  the 
Lightning  was  so  beautiful,  and  he  wished  to  see  where  it  was  com- 
ing from ! " ' 

In  his  village-school  he  reads  the  Classics  with  diligence, 
without  relish;  at  home,  with  far  deeper  feelings,  the  Bible  ; 
and  already  his  young  heart  is  caught  with  that  mystic 


SCHILLER. 


257 


grandeur  of  the  Hebrew  Prophets.  His  devout  nature, 
moulded  by  the  pious  habits  of  his  parents,  inclines  him  to 
be  a  clergyman :  a  clergyman,  indeed,  he  proved ;  only  the 
Church  he  ministered  in  was  the  Catholic,  a  far  more  Catho- 
lic than  that  false  Romish  one.  But  already  in  his  ninth 
year,  not  without-  rapturous  amazement,  and  a  lasting  re- 
membrance, he  had  seen  the  'splendours  of  the  Ludwigs- 
burg  Theatre ; '  and  so,  unconsciously,  cast  a  glimpse  into 
that  world,  where,  by  accident  or  natural  preference,  his 
own  genius  was  one  day  to  work  out  its  noblest  triumphs. 

Before  the  end  of  his  boyhood,  however,  begins  a  far 
harsher  era  for  Schiller ;  wherein,  under  quite  other  nurture, 
other  faculties  were  to  be  developed  in  him.  He  must  enter 
on  a  scene  of  oppression,  distortion,  isolation  ;  under  which, 
for  the  present,  the  fairest  years  of  his  existence  are  pain- 
fully crushed  down.  But  this  too  has  its  wholesome  influ- 
ences on  him  ;  for  there  is  in  genius  that  alchemy  which 
converts  all  metals  into  gold  ;  which  from  suffering  educes 
strength,  from  error  clearer  wisdom,  from  all  things  good. 

'  The  Duke  of  Wiirtemberg  had  lately  founded  a  free  seminary 
for  certain  branches  of  professional  education  :  it  was  first  set  up  at 
Solitude,  one  of  his  country  residences ;  and  had  now  been  trans- 
ferred to  Stuttgard,  where,  under  an  improved  form,  and  with  the 
name  of  Karls-schule,  we  believe  it  still  exists.  The  Duke  proposed 
to  give  the  sons  of  his  military  officers  a  preferable  claim  to  the  bene- 
fits of  this  institution ;  and  having  formed  a  good  opinion  both  of 
Schiller  and  his  father,  he  invited  the  former  to  profit  by  this  oppor- 
tunity. The  offer  occasioned  great  embarrassment :  the  young  man 
and  his  parents  were  alike  determined  in  favour  of  the  Church,  a 
project  with  which  this  new  one  was  inconsistent.  Their  embar- 
rassment was  but  increased,  when  the  Duke  on  learning  the  nature 
of  their  scruples,  desired  them  to  think  well  before  they  decided. 
It  was  out  of  fear,  and  with  reluctance  that  his  proposal  was  ac- 
cepted. Schiller  enrolled  himself  in  1773;  and  turned,  with  a  heavy 
heart,  from  freedom  and  cherished  hopes,  to  Greek,  and  seclusion, 
and  Law. 

'  His  anticipations  proved  to  be  but  too  just :  the  six  years  which 
he  spent  in  this  Establishment  were  the  most  harassing  and  com- 
fortless of  his  life.    The  Stuttgard  system  of  education  seems  to 

vol.  n.  17 


258 


MISCELLANIES. 


have  been  formed  on  the  principle,  not  of  cherishing  and  correcting 
nature,  but  of  rooting  it  out,  and  supplying  its  place  by  something 
better.  The  process  of  teaching  and  living  was  conducted  with  the 
stiff  formality  of  military  drilling  ;  everything  went  on  by  statute 
and  ordinance  ;  there  was  no  scope  for  the  exercise  of  free-will,  no 
allowance  for  the  varieties  of  original  structure.  A  scholar  might 
possess  what  instincts  or  capacities  he  pleased ;  the  "  regulations  of 
the  school "  took  no  account  of  this ;  he  must  fit  himself  into  the 
common  mould,  which,  like  the  old  Giant's  bed,  stood  there,  ap- 
pointed by  superior  authority,  to  be  filled  alike  by  the  great  and  the 
little.  The  same  strict  and  narrow  course  of  reading  and  composi- 
tion was  marked  out  for  each  beforehand,  and  it  was  by  stealth  if 
he  read  or  wrote  anything  beside.  Their  domestic  economy  was 
regulated  in  the  same  spirit  as  their  preceptorial :  it  consisted  of  the 
same  sedulous  exclusion  of  all  that  could  border  on  pleasure,  or  give 
any  exercise  to  choice.  The  pupils  were  kept  apart  from  the  con- 
versation or  sight  of  any  person  but  their  teachers  ;  none  ever  got 
beyond  the  precincts  of  despotism  to  snatch  even  a  fearful  joy  ;  their 
very  amusements  proceeded  by  the  word  of  command. 

'  How  grievous  all  this  must  have  been  it  is  easy  to  conceive. 
To  Schiller  it  was  more  grievous  than  to  any  other.  Of  an  ardent 
and  impetuous  yet  delicate  nature,  whilst  his  discontentment  de- 
voured him  internally,  he  was  too  modest  to  give  it  the  relief  of  ut- 
terance by  deeds  or  words.  Locked  up  within  himself,  he  suffered 
deeply,  but  without  complaining.  Some  of  his  Letters  written 
during  this  period  have  been  preserved  :  they  exhibit  the  ineffectual 
struggles  of  a  fervid  and  busy  mind,  veiling  its  many  chagrins  under 
a  certain  dreary  patience,  which  only  shows  them  more  painfully. 
He  pored  over  his  lexicons,  and  grammars,  and  insipid  tasks,  with 
an  artificial  composure  ;  but  his  spirit  pined  within  him  like  a  cap- 
tive's, when  he  looked  forth  into  the  cheerful  world,  or  recollected 
the  affection  of  parents,  the  hopes  and  frolicsome  enjoyments  of  past 
years.' 

Youth  is  to  all  the  glad  season  of  life ;  but  often  only  by 
what  it  hopes,  not  by  what  it  attains,  or  what  it  escapes.  In 
these  sufferings  of  Schiller's,  many  a  one  may  say,  there  is 
nothing  unexampled:  could  not  the  history  of  every  Eton 
Scholar,  of  every  poor  Midshipman,  with  his  rudely-broken 
domestic  ties,  his  privations,  persecutions  and  cheerless  soli- 
tude of  heart,  equal  or  outdo  them  ?  In  respect  of  these 
its  palpable  hardships  perhaps  it  might ;  and  be  still  very 


SCHILLER. 


259 


miserable.  But  the  hardship  which  presses  heaviest  on  Schil- 
ler lies  deeper  than  all  these ;  out  of  which  the  natural  fire  of 
almost  any  young  heart  will,  sooner  or  later,  rise  victorious. 
His  worst  oppression  is  an  oppression  of  the  moral  sense ;  a 
fettering  not  of  the  Desires  only,  but  of  the  pure  reasonable 
"Will :  for  besides  all  outward  sufferings,  his  mind  is  driven 
from  its  true  aim,  dimly  yet  invincibly  felt  to  be  the  true 
one  ;  and  turned,  by  sheer  violence,  into  one  which  it  feels 
to  be  false.  Not  in  Law,  with  its  profits  and  dignities ;  not 
in  Medicine,  which  he  willingly,  yet  still  hopelessly  exchanges 
for  Law  ;  not  in  the  routine  of  any  marketable  occupation, 
how  gainful  or  honoured  soever,  can  his  soul  find  content 
and  a  borne :  only  in  some  far  purer  and  higher  region  of 
Activity  ;  for  which  he  has  yet  no  name  ;  which  he  once 
fancied  to  be  the  Church,  which  at  length  he  discovers  to  be 
Poetry.  Nor  is  this  any  transient  boyish  wilfulness,  but  a 
deep-seated,  earnest,  ineradicable  longing,  the  dim  purpose 
of  his  whole  inner  man.  Nevertheless  as  a  transient  boy- 
ish wilfulness  his  teachers  must  regard  it,  and  deal  with  it ; 
and  not  till  after  the  fiercest  contest,  and  a  clear  victory, 
will  its  true  nature  be  recognised.  Herein  lay  the  sharp- 
est sting  of  Schiller's  ill  fortune  ;  his  whole  mind  is  wrenched 
asunder ;  he  has  no  rallying  point  in  his  misery ;  he  is  suf- 
fering and  toiling  for  a  wrong  object.  '  A  singular  miscal- 
'  dilation  of  Nature,'  he  says,  long  afterwards,  '  had  combined 
'  my  poetical  tendencies  with  the  place  of  my  birth.  Any 
'  disposition  to  Poetry  did  violence  to  the  laws  of  the  Insti- 
'  tution  where  I  was  educated,  and  contradicted  the  plan  of 
'its  founder.  For  eight  years,  my  enthusiasm  struggled 
'  with  military  discipline  ;  but  the  passion  for  Poetry  is 
'vehement  and  fiery  as -a  first  love.  What  discipline  was 
'meant  to  extinguish,  it  blew  into  a  flame.  To  escape  from 
'  arrangements  that  tortured  me,  my  heart  sought  refuge  in 
'  the  world  of  ideas,  when  as  yet  I  was  unacquainted  with 
'  the  world  of  realities,  from  which  iron  bars  excluded  me.' 
Doubtless  Schiller's  own  prudence  had  already  taught  him 


260 


MISCELLANIES. 


that  in  order  to  live  poetically,  it  was  first  requisite  to  live ; 
that  he  should  and  must,  as  himself  expresses  it,  '  forsake  the 
'  balmy  climate  of  Pindus  for  the  Greenland  of  a  barren  and 
'  dreary  science  of  terms.'  But  the  dull  work  of  this  Green- 
land once  accomplished,  he  might  rationally  hope  that  his 
task  was  done ;  that  the  '  leisure  gained  by  superior  diligence' 
would  be  his  own,  for  Poetry,  or  whatever  else  he  pleased. 
Truly,  it  was  '  intolerable  and  degrading  to  be  hemmed-in 
'  still  farther  by  the  caprices  of  severe  and  formal  peda- 
'  gogues.'  No  wonder  that  Schiller  '  brooded  gloomily  '  over 
his  situation.  But  what  was  to  be  done  ?  '  Many  plans  he 
'  formed  for  deliverance :  sometimes  he  would  escape  in 
'  secret  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  free  and  busy  world,  to 
'  him  forbidden  :  sometimes  he  laid  schemes  for  utterly  aban- 
'  doning  a  place  which  he  abhorred,  and  trusting  to  fortune 
'  for  the  rest.'  But  he  is  young,  inexperienced,  unprovided  ; 
without  help  or  counsel :  there  is  nothing  to  be  done  but 
endure. 

'  Under  such  corroding  and  continual  vexations/  says  his  Biog- 
rapher, '  an  ordinary  spirit  would  have  sunk  at  length  ;  would  have 
gradually  given  up  its  loftier  aspirations,  and  sought  refuge  in  vicious 
indulgence,  or  at  best  have  sullenly  harnessed  itself  into  the  yoke, 
and  plodded  through  existence :  weary,  discontented  and  broken, 
ever  casting  back  a  hankering  look  on  the  dreams  of  his  youth,  and 
ever  without  power  to  realise  them.  But  Schiller  was  no  ordinary 
character,  and  did  not  act  like  one.  Beneath  a  cold  and  simple  ex- 
terior, dignified  with  no  artificial  attractions,  and  marred  in  its  native 
amiableness  by  the  incessant  obstruction,  the  isolation  and  painful 
destitutions  under  which  he  lived,  there  was  concealed  a  burning 
energy  of  soul,  which  no  obstruction  could  extinguish.  The  hard 
circumstances  of  his  fortune  had  prevented  the  natural  development 
of  his  mind ;  his  faculties  had  been  cramped  and  misdirected  ;  but 
they  had  gathered  strength  by  opposition  and  the  habit  of  self- 
dependence  which  it  encouraged.  His  thoughts,  unguided  by  a 
teacher,  had  sounded  into  the  depths  of  his  own  nature  and  the  mys- 
teries of  his  own  fate  :  his  feelings  and  passions,  unshared  by  any 
other  heart,  had  been  driven  back  upon  his  own  ;  where,  like  the 
volcanic  fire  that  smoulders  and  fuses  in  secret,  they  accumulated 
till  their  force  grew  irresistible. 


SCHILLER. 


261 


'  Hitherto  Schiller  had  passed  for  an  unprofitable,  a  discontented 
and  a  disobedient  Boy  :  but  the  time  was  now  come  when  the  gyves 
of  school-discipline  could  no  longer  cripple  and  distort  the  giant  might 
of  his  nature  :  he  stood  forth  as  a  Man,  and  wrenched  asunder  his 
fetters  with  a  force  that  was  felt  at  the  extremities  of  Europe.  The 
publication  of  the  Robbers  forms  an  era  not  only  in  Schiller's  history, 
but  in  the  literature  of  the  World ;  and  there  seems  no  doubt  that, 
but  for  so  mean  a  cause  as  the  perverted  discipline  of  the  Stuttgard 
school,  we  had  never  seen  this  tragedy.  Schiller  commenced  it  in 
his  nineteenth  year  ;  and  the  circumstances  under  which  it  was  com- 
posed are  to  be  traced  in  all  its  parts. 

'  Translations  of  the  work  soon  appeared  in  almost  all  the  lan- 
guages of  Europe,1  and  were  read  in  almost  all  of  them  with  a  deep 
interest,  compounded  of  admiration  and  aversion,  according  to  the 
relative  proportions  of  sensibility  and  judgment  in  the  various  minds, 
which  contemplated  the  subject.  In  Germany,  the  enthusiasm  which 
the  Robbers  excited  was  extreme.  The  young  author  had  burst  upon 
the  world  like  a  meteor ;  and  surprise,  for  a  time,  suspended  the 
power  of  cool  and  rational  criticism.  In  the  ferment  produced  by 
the  universal  discussion  of  this  single  topic,  the  poet  was  magnified 
above  his  natural  dimensions,  great  as  they  were  :  and  though  the 
general  sentence  was  loudly  in  his  favour,  yet  he  found  detractors  as 
well  as  praisers,  and  both  equally  beyond  the  limits  of  moderation. 

'  But  the  tragedy  of  the  Robbers  produced  for  its  Author  some 
consequences  of  a  kind  much  more  sensible  than  these.  We  have 
called  it  the  signal  of  Schiller's  deliverance  from  school-tyranny  and 
military  constraint ;  but  its  operation  in  this  respect  was  not  imme- 
diate. At  first  it  seemed  to  involve  him  more  deeply  than  before. 
He  had  finished  the  original  sketch  of  it  in  1778 ;  but  for  fear  of 
offence,  he  kept  it  secret  till  his  medical  studies  were  completed. 
These,  in  the  mean  time,  he  had  pursued  with  sufficient  assiduity  to 
merit  the  usual  honours.  In  1780,  he  had,  in  consequence,  obtained 
the  post  of  Surgeon  to  the  regiment  Augt,  in  the  Wurtemberg  army. 
This  advancement  enabled  him  to  complete  his  project, — to  print 
the  Robbers  at  his  own  expense  ;  not  being  able  to  find  any  bookseller 
that  would  undertake  it.  The  nature  of  the  work,  and  the  universal 
interest  it  awakened,  drew  attention  to  the  private  circumstances  of 
the  Author,  whom  the  Robbers,  as  well  as  other  pieces  of  his  writing 
that  had  found  their  way  into  the  periodical  publications  of  the  time, 

1  Our  English  translation,  one  of  the  washiest,  was  executed  (we  have 
been  told)  in  Edinburgh  by  a  '  Lord  of  Session,'  otherwise  not  unknown 
in  Literature;  who  went  to  work  under  deepest  concealment,  lest  evil 
might  befall  him.  The  confidential  Devil,  now  an  Angel,  who  mysteri- 
ously carried  him  the  proof-sheets,  is  our  informant. 


262 


MISCELLANIES. 


sufficiently  showed  to  be  no  common  man.  Many  grave  persons 
were  offended  at  the  vehement  sentiments  expressed  in  the  Robbers  ; 
and  the  unquestioned  ability  with  which  these  extravagances  were 
expressed  but  made  the  matter  worse.  To  Schiller's  superiors, 
above  all,  such  things  were  inconceivable  ;  he  might  perhaps  be  a 
very  great  genius,  but  was  certainly  a  dangerous  servant  for  His 
Highness  the  Grand  Duke  of  Wurtemberg.  Officious  people  mingled 
themselves  in  the  affair :  nay  the  graziers  of  the  Alps  were  brought 
to  bear  upon  it.  The  Grisons  magistrates,  it  appeared,  had  seen  the 
book,  and  were  mortally  huffed  at  their  people's  being  there  spoken 
of,  according  to  a  Swabian  adage,  as  common  highwaymen.1  They 
complained  in  the  Hamburg  Correspondent ;  and  a  sort  of  jackall,  at 
Ludwigsburg,  one  Walter,  whose  name  deserves  to  be  thus  kept  in 
mind,  volunteered  to  plead  their  cause  before  the  Grand  Duke. 

'  Informed  of  all  these  circumstances,  the  Grand  Duke  expressed 
his  disapprobation  of  Schiller's  poetical  labours  in  the  most  unequiv- 
ocal terms.  Schiller  was  at  length  summoned  before  him;  and  it 
then  turned  out,  that  His  Highness  was  not  only  dissatisfied  with  the 
moral  or  political  errors  of  the  work,  but  scandalised  moreover  at  its 
want  of  literary  merit.  In  this  latter  respect,  he  was  kind  enough 
to  proffer  his  own  services.  But  Schiller  seems  to  have  received  the 
proposal  with  no  sufficient  gratitude  ;  and  the  interview  passed  with- 
out advantage  to  either  party.  It  terminated  in  the  Duke's  com- 
manding Schiller  to  abide  by  medical  subjects  :  or  at  least,  to  beware 
of  writing  any  more  poetry,  without  submitting  it  to  his  inspection. 
#  *  *  #  * 

'  Various  new  mortifications  awaited  Schiller.  It  was  in  vain  that 
he  discharged  the  humble  duties  of  his  station  with  the  most  strict 
fidelity,  and  even,  it  is  said,  with  superior  skill :  he  was  a  suspected 
person,  and  his  most  innocent  actions  were  misconstrued,  his  slightest 
faults  were  visited  with  the  full  measure  of  official  severity.  *  *  * 
His  free  spirit  shrank  at  the  prospect  of  wasting  its  strength  in  strife 
against  the  pitiful  constraints,  the  minute  and  endless  persecutions 
of  men  who  knew  him  not,  yet  had  his  fortune  in  their  hands  :  the 

1  The  obnoxious  passage  has  been  carefully  expunged  from  subsequent 
editions.  It  was  in  the  third  Scene  of  the  second  Act.  Spiegelberg,  dis- 
coursing with  Razmann,  observes,  "  An  honest  man  you  may  form  of 
windle-straws ;  but  to  make  a  rascal  you  must  have  grist:  besides,  there 
is  a  national  genius  in  it,  —  a  certain  rascal-climate,  so  to  speak."  In  the 
first  Edition  there  was  added,  "  Go  to  the  Grisons,  for  instance;  that  is  what 
I  call  the,  Thief's  Alliens."  The  patriot  who  stood  forth,  on  this  occasion, 
for  the  honour  of  the  Grisons,  to  deny  this  weighty  charge,  and  denounce 
the  crime  of  making  it,  was  not  Dogberry  or  Verges,  but  '  one  of  the 
noble  family  of  Salis.' 


SCHILLER. 


2G3 


idea  of  dungeons  and  jarloi's  haunted  and  tortured  his  mind  ;  and  the 
means  of  escaping  them,  the  renunciation  of  poetry,  the  source  of  all 
his  joy,  if  likewise  of  many  woes,  the  radiant  guiding-star  of  his  tur- 
bid and  obscure  existence,  seemed  a  sentence  of  death  to  all  that  was 
dignified,  and  delightful,  and  worth  retaining,  in  his  character.  *  *  * 
With  the  natural  feeling  of  a  young  author,  he  had  ventured  to  go  in 
secret,  and  witness  the  first  representation  of  his  Tragedy,  at  Man- 
heim.  His  incognito  did  not  conceal  him  ;  he  was  put  under  arrest, 
during  a  week,  for  this  offence  :  and  as  the  punishment  did  not  deter 
him  from  again  transgressing  in  a  similar  manner,  he  learned  that  it 
was  in  contemplation  to  try  more  rigorous  measures  with  him.  Dark 
hints  were  given  to  him  of  some  exemplary  as  well  as  imminent 
severity  :  and  Dalberg's  aid,  the  sole  hope  of  averting  it  by  quiet 
means,  was  distant  and  dubious.  Schiller  saw  himself  reduced  to 
extremities.  Beleaguered  with  present  distresses,  and  the  most 
horrible  forebodings,  on  every  side ;  roused  to  the  highest  pitch  of 
indignation,  yet  forced  to  keep  silence  and  wear  the  face  of  patience, 
he  could  endure  this  maddening  constraint  no  longer.  He  resolved 
to  be  free,  at  whatever  risk ;  to  abandon  advantages  which  he  could 
not  buy  at  such  a  price ;  to  quit  his  step-dame  home,  and  go  forth, 
though  friendless  and  alone,  to  seek  his  fortune  in  the  great  market 
of  life.  Some  foreign  Duke  or  Prince  was  arriving  at  Stuttgard ; 
and  all  the  people  were  in  movement,  witnessing  the  spectacle  of  his 
entrance  :  Schiller  seized  this  opportunity  of  retiring  from  the  city, 
careless  whither  he  went,  so  he  got  beyond  the  reach  of  turnkeys, 
and  Grand  Dukes,  and  commanding  officers.  It  was  in  the  month 
of  October  1782,  his  twenty-third  year.' 1 

Such  were  the  circumstances  under  which  Schiller  rose  to 
manhood.  We  see  them  permanently  influence  his  char- 
acter ;  but  there  is  also  a  strength  in  himself  which  on  the 
whole  triumphs  over  them.  The  kindly  and  the  unkindly 
alike  lead  him  towards  the  goal.  In  childhood,  the  most 
unheeded,  but  by  far  the  most  important  era  of  existence,  — 
as  it  were,  the  still  Creation-days  of  the  whole  future  man, 
—  he  had  breathed  the  only  wholesome  atmosphere,  a  soft 
atmosphere  of  affection  and  joy :  the  invisible  seeds  which 
are  one  day  to  ripen  into  clear  Devoutness,  and  all  humane 
Virtue,  are  happily  sown  in  him.  Not  till  he  has  gathered 
force  for  resistance,  does  the  time  of  contradiction,  of  being 
i  Life  of  Schiller,  Part  I. 


264 


MISCELLANIES. 


4  purified  by  suffering,'  arrive.  For  this  contradiction  too  we 
have  to  thank  those  Stuttgard  Schoolmasters  and  their  pur- 
blind Duke.  Had  the  system  they  followed  been  a  milder, 
more  reasonable  one,  we  should  not  indeed  have  altogether 
lost  our  Poet,  for  the  Poetry  lay  in  his  inmost  soul,  and 
could  not  remain  unuttered  ;  but  we  might  well  have  found 
him  under  a  far  inferior  character :  not  dependent  on  himself 
and  truth,  but  dependent  on  the  world  and  its  gifts  ;  not 
standing  on  a  native,  everlasting  basis,  but  on  an  accidental, 
transient  one. 

In  Schiller  himself,  as  manifested  in  these  emergencies, 
we  already  trace  the  chief  features  which  distinguish  him 
through  life.  A  tenderness,  a  sensitive  delicacy,  aggravated 
under  that  harsh  treatment,  issues  in  a  certain  shyness  and 
reserve  :  which,  as  conjoined  moreover  with  habits  of  internal 
and  not  of  external  activity,  might  in  time  have  worked 
itself,  had  his  natural  temper  been  less  warm  and  affection- 
ate, into  timorous  self-seclusion,  dissociality  and  even  positive 
misanthropy.  Nay  generally  viewed,  there  is  much  in  Schil- 
ler at  this  epoch  that  to  a  careless  observer  might  have 
passed  for  weakness ;  as  indeed,  for  such  observers,  weakness 
and  fineness  of  nature  are  easily  confounded.  One  element 
of  strength,  however,  and  the  root  of  all  strength,  he  through- 
out evinces:  he  wills  one  thing,  and  knows  what  he  wills. 
His  mind  has  a  purpose,  and  still  better,  a  right  purpose. 
He  already  loVes  true  spiritual  Beauty,  with  his  whole  heart 
and  his  whole  soul ;  and  for  the  attainment,  for  the  pursuit 
of  this,  is  prepared  to  make  all  sacrifices.  As  a  dim  instinct, 
under  vague  forms,  this  aim  first  appears  ;  gains  force  with 
his  force,  clearness  in  the  opposition  it  must  conquer ;  and  at 
length  declares  itself,  with  a  peremptory  emphasis  which  will 
admit  of  no  contradiction. 

As  a  mere  piece  of  literary  history,  these  passages  of 
Schiller's  life  are  not  without  interest:  this  is  a  4  persecution 
for  conscience-sake,'  such  as  has  oftener  befallen  heresy  in 
Religion  than  heresy  in  Literature ;  a  blind  struggle  to  ex- 


SCHILLER. 


265 


tinguish,  by  physical  violence,  the  inward  celestial  light  of  a 
human  soul ;  and  here  in  regard  to  Literature,  as  in  regard 
to  Religion  it  always  is,  an  ineffectual  struggle.  Doubtless, 
as  religious  Inquisitors  have  often  done,  those  secular  In- 
quisitors meant  honestly  in  persecuting ;  and  since  the  matter 
went  well  in  spite  of  them,  their  interference  with  it  may  be 
forgiven  and  forgotten.  We  have  dwelt  the  longer  on  these 
proceedings  of  theirs,  because  they  bring  us  to  the  grand 
crisis  of  Schiller's  history,  and  for  the  first  time  show  us  his 
will  decisively  asserting  itself,  decisively  pronouncing  the  law 
whereby  his  whole  future  life  is  to  be  governed.  He  himself 
says,  he  '  went  empty  away  ;  empty  in  purse  and  hope.'  Yet 
the  mind  that  dwelt  in  him  was  still  there  with  its  gifts ;  and 
the  task  of  his  existence  now  lay  undivided  before  him.  He 
is  henceforth  a  Literary  Man  ;  and  need  appear  in  no  other 
character.  '  All  my  connexions,'  he  could  ere  long  say,  '  are 
'  now  dissolved.  The  public  is  now  all  to  me  ;  my  study,  my 
'  sovereign,  my  confidant.  To  the  public  alone  I  from  this 
'  time  belong ;  before  this  and  no  other  tribunal  will  I  place 
'  myself ;  this  alone  do  I  reverence  and  fear.  Something 
j  majestic  hovers  before  me,  as  I  determine  now  to  wear  no 
'  other  fetters  but  the  sentence  of  the  world,  to  appeal  to  no 
'  other  throne  but  the  soul  of  man.' 1 

In  his  subsequent  life,  with  all  varieties  of  outward  fortune, 
we  find  a  noble  inward  unity.  That  love  of  Literature,  and 
that  resolution  to  abide  by  it  at  all  hazards,  do  not  forsake 
him.  He  wanders  through  the  world  ;  looks  at  it  under 
many  phases  ;  mingles  in  the  joys  of  social  life  ;  is  a  hus- 
band, father ;  experiences  all  the  common  destinies  of  man  ; 
but  the  same  'radiant  guiding-star'  which,  often  obscured, 
find  led  him  safe  through  the  perplexities  of  his  youth,  now 
shines  on  him  with  unwavering  light.  In  all  relations  and 
conditions,  Schiller  is  blameless,  amiable  ;  he  is  even  little 
tempted  to  err.  That  high  purpose  after  spiritual  perfec- 
tion, which  with  him  was  a  love  of  Poetry,  and  an  unwearied 
1  Preface  to  the  Thalia. 


266 


MISCELLANIES. 


active  love,  is  itself,  when  pure  and  supreme,  the  necessary 
parent  of  good  conduct,  as  of  noble  feeling.  With  all  men 
it  should  be  pure  and  supreme,  for  in  one  or  the  other  shape 
it  is  the  true  end  of  man's  life.  Neither  in  any  man  is  it 
ever  wholly  obliterated  ;  with  the  most,  however,  it  remains 
a  passive  sentiment,  an  idle  wish.  And  even  with  the  small 
residue  of  men,  in  whom  it  attains  some  measure  of  activity, 
who  would  be  Poets  in  act  or  word,  how  seldom  is  it  the 
sincere  and  highest  purpose,  how  seldom  unmixed  with  vul- 
gar ambition,  and  low,  mere  earthly  aims,  which  distort  or 
utterly  pervert  its  manifestations  !  With  Schiller,  again,  it 
was  the  one  thing  needful ;  the  first  duty,  for  which  all  other 
duties  worked  together,  under  which  all  other  duties  quietly 
prospered,  as  under  their  rightful  sovereign.  Worldly  pre- 
ferment, fame  itself,  he  did  not  covet :  yet  of  fame  he  reaps 
the  most  plenteous  harvest ;  and  of  worldly  goods  what  little 
he  wanted  is  in  the  end  made  sure  to  him.  His  mild,  honest 
character  everywhere  gains  him  friends :  that  upright,  peace- 
ful, simple  life  is  honourable  in  the  eyes  of  all  ;  and  they  who 
know  him  the  best  love  him  the  most. 

Perhaps  among  all  the  circumstances  of  Schiller's  literary 
life,  there  was  none  so  important  for  him  as  his  connexion 
with  Goethe.  To  use  our  old  figure,  we  might  say,  that  if 
Schiller  was  a  Priest,  then  was  Goethe  the  Bishop  from 
whom  he  first  acquired  clear  spiritual  light,  by  whose  hands 
he  was  ordained  to  the  priesthood.  Their  friendship  has 
been  much  celebrated,  and  deserved  to  be  so:  it  is  a  pure 
relation  ;  unhappily  too  rare  in  Literature  ;  where  if  a  Swift 
and  Pope  can  even  found  an  imperious  Duumvirate,  on  little 
more  than  mutually-tolerated  pride,  and  part  the  spoils  for 
some  time  without  quarrelling,  it  is  thought  a  credit.  Sel- 
dom do  men  combine  so  steadily  and  warmly  for  such  pur- 
poses, which  when  weighed  in  the  economic  balance  are  but 
gossamer.  It  appears  also  that  preliminary  difficulties  stood 
in  the  way  ;  prepossessions  of  some  strength  had  to  be  con- 
quered on  both  sides.    For  a  number  of  years,  the  two,  by 


SCHILLER. 


267 


accident  or  choice,  neve"r  met,  and  their  first  interview  scarcely 
promised  any  permanent  approximation.  '  On  the  whole,' 
says  Schiller,  '  this  personal  meeting  has  not  at  all  dimin- 
'  ished  the  idea,  great  as  it  was,  which  I  had  previously 
1  formed  of  Goethe  ;  but  I  doubt  whether  we  shall  ever  come 
'  into  close  communication  with  each  other.  Much  that  still 
'  interests  me  has  already  had  its  epoch  with  him.  His 
\  whole  nature  is,  from  its  very  origin,  otherwise  constructed 
\  than  mine  ;  his  world  is  not  my  world  ;  our  modes  of  con- 
'  ceiving  things  appear  to  be  essentially  different.  From 
I  such  a  combination  no  secure  substantial  intimacy  can 
I  result.' 

Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  far  graver  prejudices  on  the  part 
of  Goethe,  —  to  say  nothing  of  the  poor  jealousies  which  in 
another  man  so  circumstanced  would  openly  or  secretly  have 
been  at  work,  —  a  secure  substantial  intimacy  did  result ; 
manifesting  itself  by  continual  good  offices,  and  interrupted 
only  by  death.  If  we  regard  the  relative  situation  of  the 
parties,  and  their  conduct  in  this  matter,  we  must  recognise 
in  both  of  them  no  little  social  virtue  ;  at  all  events,  a  deep 
disinterested  love  of  worth.  In  the  case  of  Goethe,  more 
especially,  who,  as  the  elder  and  everyway  greater  'of 
the  two,  has  little  to  expect  in  comparison  with  what  he 
gives,  this  friendly  union,  had  we  space  to  explain  its  nature 
and  progress,  would  give  new  proof  that,  as  poor  Jung  Stil- 
ling also  experienced,  '  the  man's  heart,  which  few  know,  is 
'  as  true  and  noble  as  his  genius,  which  all  know.'  By 
Goethe,  and  this  even  before  the  date  of  their  friendship, 
Schiller's  outward  interests  had  been  essentially  promoted : 
he  was  introduced,  under  that  sanction,  into  the  service  of 
Weimar,  to  an  academic  office,  to  a  pension  ;  his  whole  way 
was  made  smooth  for  him.  In  spiritual  matters,  this  help, 
or  rather  let  us  say  cooperation,  for  it  came  not  in  the  shape 
of  help,  but  of  reciprocal  service,  was  of  still  more  lasting 
consequence.  By  the  side  of  his  friend,  Schiller  rises  into 
the  highest  regions  of  Art  he  ever  reached  ;  and  in  all  wor— 


268 


MISCELLANIES. 


thy  things  is  sure  of  sympathy,  of  one  wise  judgment  amid 
a  crowd  of  unwise  ones,  of  one  helpful  hand  amid  many 
hostile.  Thus  outwardly  and  inwardly  assisted  and  con- 
firmed, he  henceforth  goes  on  his  way  with  new  stedfast- 
ness,  turning  neither  to  the  right  hand  nor  to  the  left ;  and 
while  days  are  given  him,  devotes  them  wholly  to  his  best 
duty.  It  is  rare  that  one  man  can  do  so  much  for  another, 
can  permanently  benefit  another ;  so  mournfully,  in  giving 
and  receiving,  as  in  most  charitable  affections  and  finer 
movements  of  our  nature,  are  we  all  held-in  by  that  paltry 
vanity,  which,  under  reputable  names,  usurps,  on  both  sides, 
a  sovereignty  it  has  no  claim  to.  Nay  many  times,  when 
our  friend  would  honestly  help  us,  and  strives  to  do  it,  yet 
will  he  never  bring  himself  to  understand  what  we  really 
need,  and  so  to  forward  us  on  our  own  path ;  but  insists  more 
simply  on  our  taking  his  path,  and  leaves  us  as  incorrigible 
because  we  will  not  and  cannot.  Thus  men  are  solitary 
among  each  other ;  no  one  will  help  his  neighbour ;  each 
has  even  to  assume  a  defensive  attitude  lest  his  neighbour 
hinder  him  ! 

Of  Schiller's  zealous,  entire  devotedness  to  Literature  we 
have  already  spoken  as  of  his  crowning  virtue,  and  the  great 
source  of  his  welfare.  With  what  ardour  he  pursued  this 
object,  his  whole  life,  from  the  earliest  stage  of  it,  had  given 
proof :  but  the  clearest  proof,  clearer  even  than  that  youthful 
self-exile,  was  reserved  for  his  later  years,  when  a  lingering, 
incurable  disease  had  laid  on  him  its  new  and  ever-galling 
burden.  At  no  period  of  Schiller's  history  does  the  native 
nobleness  of  his  character  appear  so  decidedly,  as  now  in 
this  season  of  silent  unwitnessed  heroism,  when  the  dark 
enemy  dwelt  within  himself,  unconquerable,  yet  ever,  in  all 
other  struggles,  to  be  kept  at  bay.  We  have  medical  evi- 
dence that  during  the  last  fifteen  years  of  his  life,  not  a 
moment  could  have  been  free  of  pain.  Yet  he  utters  no 
complaint.  In  this  'Correspondence  with  Goethe'  we  see 
him  cheerful,  laborious  ;  scarcely  speaking  of  his  maladies, 


SCHILLER. 


269 


and  then  only  historically,  in  the  style  of  a  third  party,  as 
it  were,  calculating  what  force  and  length  of  days  might 
still  remain  at  his  disposal.  Nay  his  highest  poetical  per- 
formances, we  may  say  all  that  are  truly  poetical,  belong  to 
this  era.  If  we  recollect  how  many  poor  valetudinarians, 
Rousseaus,  Cowpers  and"  the  like,  men  otherwise  of  fine  en- 
dowments, dwindle  under  the  influence  of  nervous  disease, 
into  pining  wretchedness,  some  into  madness  itself ;  and  then 
that  Schiller,  under  the  like  influence,  wrote  some  of  his 
deepest  speculations,  and  all  his  genuine  dramas,  from  Wal- 
lenstein  to  Wilhelm  Tell,  we  shall  the  better  estimate  his 
merit. 

It  has  been  said,  that  only  in  Religion,  or  something  equiv- 
alent to  Religion,  can  human  nature  support  itself  under  such 
trials.  But  Schiller  too  had  his  Religion  ;  was  a  Worship- 
per, nay,  as  we  have  often  said,  a  Priest ;  and  so  in  his 
earthly  sufferings  wanted  not  a  heavenly  stay.  Without 
some  such  stay  his  life  might  well  have  been  intolerable  ; 
stript  of  the  Ideal,  what  remained  for  him  in  the  Real  was 
but  a  poor  matter.  Do  we  talk  of  his  '  happiness  ? '  Alas, 
what  is  the  loftiest  flight  of  genius,  the  finest  frenzy  that  ever 
for  moments  united  Heaven  with  Earth,  to  the  perennial 
never-failing  joys  of  a  digestive-apparatus  thoroughly  eupep- 
tic ?  Has  not  the  turtle-eating  man  an  eternal  sunshine  of 
the  breast  ?  Does  not  his  Soul,  —  which,  as  in  some  Scla- 
vonic dialects,  means  his  Stomach,  —  sit  forever  at  its  ease, 
enwrapped  in  warm  condiments,  amid  spicy  odours  ;  enjoy- 
ing the  past,  the  present  and  the  future ;  and  only  awaken- 
ing from  its  soft  trance  to  the  sober  certainty  of  a  still  higher 
bliss  each  meal-time,  —  three,  or  even  four  visions  of  Heaven 
in  the  space  of  one  solar  day !  While  for  the  sick  man  of 
genius,  '  whose  world  is  of  the  mind,  ideal,  internal ;  when 
'  the  mildew  of  lingering  disease  has  struck  that  world,  and 
'  begun  to  blacken  and  consume  its  beauty,  what  remains  but 
'  despondency,  and  bitterness,  and  desolate  sorrow  felt  and 
f  anticipated  to  the  end  ? ' 


270 


MISCELLANIES. 


'  "Woe  to  him,'  continues  this  Jeremiah,  '  if  his  will  likewise  falter, 
if  his  resolution  fail,  and  his  spirit  bend  its  neck  to  the  yoke  of  this 
new  enemy  !  Idleness  and  a  disturbed  imagination  will  gain  the 
mastery  of  him,  and  let  loose  their  thousand  fiends  to  harass  him, 
to  torment  him  into  madness.  Alas,  the  bondage  of  Algiers  is  free- 
dom compared  with  this  of  the  sick  man  of  genius,  whose  heart  has 
fainted,  and  sunk  beneath  its  load.  His  clay  dwelling  is  changed  into 
a  gloomy  prison ;  every  nerve  has  become  an  avenue  of  disgust  or 
anguish,  and  the  soul  sits  within  in  her  melancholy  loneliness,  a  prey 
to  the  spectres  of  despair,  or  stupefied  with  excess  of  suffering ; 
doomed,  as  it  were,  to  a  life-in-death,  to  a  consciousness  of  agonised 
existence,  without  the  consciousness  of  power  which  should  accom- 
pany it.  Happily  death,  or  entire  fatuity  at  length  puts  an  end  to 
such  scenes  of  ignoble  misery,  which  however,  ignoble  as  they  are, 
we  ought  to  view  witli  pity  rather  than  contempt.' 1 

Yet  on  the  whole,  we  say,  it  is  a  shame  for  the  man  of 
genius  to  complain.  Has  he  not  a  '  light  from  Heaven  5 
within  him,  to  which  the  splendour  of  all  earthly  thrones 
and  principalities  is  but  darkness  ?  And  the  head  that  wears 
such  a  crown  grudges  to  lie  uneasy  ?  If  that  same  '  light 
from  Heaven,'  shining  through  the  falsest  media,  supported 
Syrian  Simon  through  all  weather  on  his  sixty-feet  Pillar, 
or  the  still  more  wonderful  Eremite  who  walled  himself,  for 
life,  up  to  the  chin,  in  stone  and  mortar  ;  how  much  more 
should  it  do,  when  shining  direct,  and  pure  from  all  inter- 
mixture ?  Let  the  modern  Priest  of  Wisdom  either  suffer 
his  small  persecutions  and  inflictions,  though  sickness  be  of 
the  number,  in  patience,  or  admit  that  ancient  fanatics  and 
bedlamites  were  truer  worshippers  than  he. 

A  foolish  controversy  on  this  subject  of  Happiness  now 
and  then  occupies  some  intellectual  dinner-party  ;  speculative 
gentlemen  we  have  seen  more  than  once  almost  forget  their 
wine  in  arguing  whether  Happiness  was  the  chief  end  of 
man.  The  most  cry  out,  with  Pope :  '  Happiness,  our 
being's  end  and  aim  ; '  and  ask  whether  it  is  even  conceiv- 
able that  we  should  follow  any  other.  How  comes  it,  then, 
cry  the  Opposition,  that  the  gross  are  happier  than  the  re- 
i  Life  of  Schiller,  p.  85. 


SCHILLER. 


271 


fined ;  that  even  though  we  know  them  to  be  happier,  we 
would  not  change  places  with  them  ?  Is  it  not  written,  In- 
crease of  knowledge  is  increase  of  sorrow  ?  And  yet  also 
written,  in  characters  still  more  ineffaceable,  Pursue  knowl- 
edge, attain  clear  vision,  as  the  beginning  of  all  good  ?  Were 
your  doctrine  right,  for-  what  should  we  struggle  with  our 
whole  might,  for  what  pray  to  Heaven,  if  not  that  the  '  mal- 
ady of  thought '  might  be  utterly  stifled  within  us,  and  a 
power  of  digestion  and  secretion,  to  which  that  of  the  tiger 
were  trifling,  be  imparted  instead  thereof?  Whereupon  the 
others  deny  that  thought  is  a  malady ;  that  increase  of 
knowledge  is  increase  of  sorrow ;  that  Aldermen  have  a 
sunnier  life  than  Aristotle's,  though  the  Stagyrite  himself 
died  exclaiming,  Fcede  mundum  intravi,  anxius  vixi,  pertur- 
batus  morior,  &c. :  and  thus  the  argument  circulates,  and  the 
bottles  stand  still. 

So  far  as  that  Happiness-question  concerns  the  symposia 
of  speculative  gentlemen,  —  the  rather  as  it  really  is  a  good 
enduring  hacklog  whereon  to  chop  logic,  for  those  so  minded, 
—  we  with  great  willingness  leave  it  resting  on  its  own  bot- 
tom. But  there  are  earnest  natures  for  whom  Truth  is  no 
plaything,  but  the  staff  of  life ;  men  whom  the  '  solid  reality 
of  things'  will  not  carry  forward;  who,  when  the  'inward 
voice '  is  silent  in  them,  are  powerless,  nor  will  the  loud  huz- 
zaing of  millions  supply  the  want  of  it.  To  these  men,  seek- 
ing anxiously  for  guidance ;  feeling  that  did  they  once  clearly 
see  the  right,  they  would  follow  it  cheerfully  to  weal  or  to 
woe,  comparatively  careless  which ;  to  these  men  the  ques- 
tion, what  is  the  proper  aim  of  man,  has  a  deep  and  awful 
interest. 

For  the  sake  of  such,  it  may  be  remarked  that  the  origin 
this  argument,  like  that  of  every  other  argument  under  the 
sun,  lies  in  the  confusion  of  language.  If  Happiness  mean 
Welfare,  there  is  no  doubt  but  all  men  should  and  must  pur- 
sue their  Welfare,  that  is  to  say,  pursue  what  is  worthy  of 
their  pursuit.    But  if,  on  the  other  hand,  Happiness  mean^ 


272 


MISCELLANIES. 


as  for  most  men  it  does,  1  agreeable  sensations,'  Enjoyment 
refined  or  not,  then  must  we  observe  that  there  is  a  doubt ; 
or  rather  that  there  is  a  certainty  the  other  way.  Strictly 
considered,  this  truth,  that  man  has  in  him  something  higher 
than  a  Love  of  Pleasure,  take  Pleasure  in  what  sense  you 
will,  has  been  the  text  of  all  true  Teachers  and  Preachers, 
since  the  beginning  of  the  world ;  and  in  one  or  another  dia- 
lect, we  may  hope,  will  continue  to  be  preached  and  taught 
till  the  world  end.  Neither  is  our  own  day  without  its  as- 
sertors  thereof :  what,  for  example,  does  the  astonished 
reader  make  of  this  little  sentence  from  Schiller's  ^Esthetic 
Letters  ?  It  is  on  that  old  question,  the  '  improvement  of  the 
species ; '  which,  however,  is  handled  here  in  a  very  new 
manner  : 

'  The  first  acquisitions,  then,  which  men  gathered  in  the  Kingdom 
of  Spirit  were  Anxiety  and  Fear ;  both,  it  is  true,  products  of  Reason, 
not  of  Sense ;  but  of  a  Reason  that  mistook  its  object,  and  mistook 
its  mode  of  application.  Fruits  of  this  same  tree  are  all  your  Happi- 
ness-Systems (Gliickseligkeitssysteme),  whether  they  have  for  object 
the  passing  day,  or  the  whole  of  life,  or  what  renders  them  no  whit 
more  venerable,  the  whole  of  Eternity.  A  boundless  duration  of 
Being  and  Well-being  (Daseyns  und  Woklseyns)  simply  for  Being  and 
Well-being's  sake,  is  an  Ideal  belonging  to  Appetite  alone,  and  which 
only  the  struggle  of  mere  Animalism  (Tltierheit),  longing  to  be  in- 
finite, gives  rise  to.  Thus  without  gaining  anything  for  his  Man- 
hood, he,  by  this  first  effort  of  Reason,  loses  the  happy  limitation  of 
the  Animal ;  and  has  now  only  the  unenviable  superiority  of  missing 
the  Present  in  an  effort  directed  to  the  Distance,  and  whereby  still,  in 
the  whole  boundless  Distance,  nothing  but  the  Present  is  sought 
for.' 1 

The  JEsthetic  Letters,  in  which  this  and  many  far  deeper 
matters  come  into  view,  will  one  day  deserve  a  long  chapter 
to  themselves.  Meanwhile  we  cannot  but  remark,  as  a  curi- 
ous symptom  of  this  time,  that  the  pursuit  of  merely  sensuous 
good,  of  personal  Pleasure,  in  one  shape  or  other,  should  be 
the  universally  admitted  formula  of  man's  whole  duty.  Once, 
1  Briefe  iiber  die  sesthetische  Erziehung  des  Menschen,  b.  24. 


SCHILLER. 


273 


Epicurus  had  his  Zen© ;  and  if  the  herd  of  mankind  have  at 
all  times  been  the  slaves  of  Desire,  drudging  anxiously  for 
their  mess  of  pottage,  or  filling  themselves  with  swine's  husks, 
—  earnest  natures  were  not  wanting  who,  at  least  in  theory, 
asserted  for  their  kind  a  higher  vocation  than  this  ;  declaring 
as  they  could,  that  man's  soul  was  no  dead  Balance  for  '  mo- 
tives'  to  sway  hither  and  thither,  but  a  living,  divine  Soul, 
indefensibly  free,  whose  birthright  it  was  to  be  the  servant 
of  Virtue,  Goodness,  God,  and  in  such  service  to  be  blessed 
without  fee  or  reward.  Nowadays,  however,  matters  are,  on 
all  hands,  managed  far  more  prudently.  The  choice  of  Her- 
cules could  not  occasion  much  difficulty,  in  these  times,  to 
any  young  man  of  talent.  On  the  one  hand,  —  by  a  path 
which  is  steep,  indeed,  yet  smoothed  by  much  travelling,  and 
kept  in  constant  repair  by  many  a  moral  Macadam,  —  smokes 
(in  patent  calefactors)  a  Dinner  of  innumerable  courses  ;  on 
the  other,  by  a  downward  path,  through  avenues  of  very 
mixed  character,  frowns  in  the  distance  a  grim  Gallows, 
probably  with  '  improved  drop.'  Thus  is  Utility  the  only 
God  of  these  days  ;  and  our  honest  Benthamites  are  but  a 
small  Provincial  Synod  of  that  boundless  Communion.  With- 
out gift  of  prophecy  we  may  predict,  that  the  straggling  bush- 
fire  which  is  kept  up  here  and  there  against  that  body  of 
well-intentioned  men,  must  one  day  become  a  universal 
battle ;  and  the  grand  question,  Mind  versus  Matter,  be 
again  under  new  forms  judged  of  and  decided.  —  But  we 
wander  too  far  from  our  task  ;  to  which,  therefore,  nothing 
doubtful  of  a  prosperous  issue  in  due  time  to  that  Utilitarian 
struggle,  we  hasten  to  return. 

In  forming  for  ourselves  some  picture  of  Schiller  as  a 
man,  of  what  may  be  called  his  moral  character,  perhaps  the 
very  perfection  of  his  manner  of  existence  tends  to  diminish 
our  estimate  of  its  merits.  What  he  aimed  at  he  has  attained 
in  a  singular  degree.  His  life,  at  least  from  the  period  of 
manhood,  is  still,  unruffled ;  of  clear,  even  course.  The 
completeness  of  the  victory  hides  from  us  the  magnitude  of 

VOL.  II.  18 


274 


MISCELLANIES. 


the  struggle.  On  the  whole,  however,  we  may  admit,  that 
his  character  was  not  so  much  a  great  character  as  a  holy 
one.  We  have  often  named  him  a  Priest ;  and  this  title, 
with  the  quiet  loftiness,  the  pure,  secluded,  only  internal,  yet 
still  heavenly  worth  that  should  belong  to  it,  perhaps  best 
describes  him.  One  high  enthusiasm  takes  possession  of  his 
whole  nature.  Herein  lies  his  strength,  as  well  as  the  task 
he  has  to  do  ;  for  this  he  lived,  and  we  may  say  also  he  died 
for  it.  In  his  life  we  see  not  that  the  social  affections  played 
any  deep  part.  As  a  son,  husband,  father,  friend,  he  is  ever 
kindly,  honest,  amiable  ;  but  rarely,  if  at  all,  do  outward 
things  stimulate  him  into  what  can  be  called  passion.  Of 
the  wild  loves  and  lamentations,  and  all  the  fierce  ardour 
that  distinguish,  for  instance,  his  Scottish  contemporary 
Burns,  there  is  scarcely  any  trace  here.  In  fact,  it  was 
towards  the  Ideal,  not  towards  the  Actual,  that  Schiller's 
faith  and  hope  was  directed.  His  highest  happiness  lay  not 
in  outward  honour,  pleasure,  social  recreation,  perhaps  not 
even  in  friendly  affection,  such  as  the  world  could  show  it ; 
but  in  the  realm  of  Poetry,  a  city  of  the  mind,  where,  for 
him,  all  that  was  true  and  noble  had  foundation.  His  habits, 
accordingly,  though  far  from  dissocial,  were  solitary ;  his 
chief  business  and  chief  pleasure  lay  in  silent  meditation. 

'  His  intolerance  of  interruptions,'  we  are  told,  at  an  early  period 
of  his  life,  '  first  put  him  on  the  plan  of  studying  by  night ;  an  allur- 
ing, but  pernicious  practice,  which  began  at  Dresden,  and  was  never 
afterwards  given  up.  His  recreations  breathed  a  similar  spirit :  he 
loved  to  be  much  alone,  and  strongly  moved.  The  banks  of  the 
Elbe  were  the  favourite  resort  of  his  mornings  :  here,  wandering  in 
solitude,  amid  groves  and  lawns,  and  green  and  beautiful  places,  he 
abandoned  his  mind  to  delicious  musings;  or  meditated  on  the  cares 
and  studies  which  had  lately  been  employing,  and  were  again  soon 
to  employ  him.  At  times  he  might  be  seen  floating  on  the  river,  in 
a  gondola,  feasting  himself  with  the  loveliness  of  earth  and  sky.  He 
delighted  most  to  be  there  when  tempests  were  abroad;  his  unquiet 
spirit  found  a  solace  in  the  expression  of  its  own  unrest  on  the  face 
of  Nature  ;  danger  lent  a  charm  to  his  situation  ;  he  felt  in  harmony 
with  the  scene,  when  the  rack  was  sweeping  stormfully  across  the 


SCHILLER. 


275 


heavens,  and  the  forests  Vere  sounding  in  the  breeze,  and  the  river 
was  rolling  its  chafed  waters  into  wild  eddying  heaps.' 

'  During  summer,'  it  is  mentioned  at  a  subsequent  date,  '  his  place 
of  study  was  in  a  garden,  which  he  at  length  purchased,  in  the 
suburbs  of  Jena,  not  far  from  the  Weselhofts'  house,  where,  at  that 
time,  was  the  office  of  the  Allgemeine  Litteraturzeitung.  Reckoning 
from  the  market-place  of  Jena,  it  lies  on  the  south-west  border  of  the 
town,  between  the  Engelgatter  and  the  Neuthor,  in  a  hollow  defile, 
through  which  a  part  of  the  Leutrabach  flows  round  the  city.  On 
the  top  of  the  acclivity,  from  which  there  is  a  beautiful  prospect  into 
the  valley  of  the  Saal,  and  the  fir  mountains  of  the  neighbouring 
forest,  Schiller  built  himself  a  small  house,  with  a  single  chamber. 
It  was  his  favourite  abode  during  hours  of  composition ;  a  great  part 
of  the  works  he  then  wrote  were  written  here.  In  winter  he  like- 
wise dwelt  apart  from  the  tumult  of  men;  —  in  the  Griesbachs'  house, 
on  the  outside  of  the  city  trench.  On  sitting  down  to  his  desk  at 
night,  he  was  wont  to  keep  some  strong  coffee,  or  wine-chocolate, 
but  more  frequently  a  flask  of  old  Rhenish  or  Champagne,  standing 
by  him,  that  he  might  from  time  to  time  repair  the  exhaustion  of 
nature.  Often  the  neighbours  used  to  hear  him  earnestly  declaiming 
in  the  silence  of  the  night ;  and  whoever  had  an  opportunity  of 
watching  him  on  such  occasions,  —  a  thing  very  easy  to  be  done, 
from  the  heights  lying  opposite  his  little  garden-house,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  dale,  —  might  see  him  now  speaking  aloud,  and  walking 
swiftly  to  and  fro  in  his  chamber,  then  suddenly  throwing  himself 
down  into  his  chair,  and  writing ;  and  drinking  the  while,  sometimes 
more  than  once,  from  the  glass  standing  near  him.  In  winter  he 
was  to  be  found  at  his  desk  till  four,  or  even  five  o'clock,  in  the 
morning  ;  in  summer  till  towards  three.  He  then  went  to  bed,  from 
which  he  seldom  rose  till  nine  or  ten.' 

And  again  : 

'  At  Weimar  his  present  way  of  life  was  like  his  former  one  at 
Jena  :  his  business  was  to  study  and  compose  ;  his  recreations  were 
in  the  circle  of  his  family,  where  he  could  abandon  himself  to  affec- 
tions grave  or  trifling,  and  in  frank  cheerful  intercourse  with  a  few 
friends.  Of  the  latter  he  had  lately  formed  a  social  club,  the  meet- 
ings of  which  afforded  him  a  regular  and  innocent  amusement.  He 
still  loved  solitary  walks  :  in  the  Park  at  Weimar  he  might  fre- 
quently be  seen,  wandering  among  the  groves  and  remote  avenues, 
with  a  note-book  in  his  hand  ;  now  loitering  slowly  along,  now  stand- 
ing still,  now  moving  rapidly  on  :  if  any  one  appeared  in  sight,  he 
would  dart  into  another  alley,  that  his  dream  might  not  be  brokenr 


276 


MISCELLANIES. 


One  of  his  favourite  resorts,  we  are  told,  was  the  thickly-over- 
shadowed, rocky  path,  which  leads  to  the  ROmische  Huus,  a  pleasure- 
house  of  the  Duke's,  huilt  under  the  direction  of  Goethe.  There  he 
would  often  sit,  in  the  gloom  of  the  crags  overgrown  with  cypresses 
and  boxwood  ;  shady  thickets  before  him  ;  not  far  from  the  murmur 
of  a  little  brook,  which  there  gushes  in  a  smooth  slaty  channel,  and 
where  some  verses  of  Goethe  are  cut  upon  a  brown  plate  of  stone, 
and  fixed  in  the  rock.' 1 

Such  retirement,  alike  from  the  tumults  and  the  pleasures 
of  busy  men,  though  it  seems  to  diminish  the  merit  of  vir- 
tuous conduct  in  Schiller,  is  itself,  as  hinted  above,  the  best 
proof  of  his  virtue.  No  man  is  born  without  ambitious 
worldly  desires  ;  and  for  no  man,  especially  for  no  man  like 
Schiller,  can  the  victory  over  them  be  too  complete.  His 
duty  lay  in  that  mode  of  life  ;  and  he  had  both  discovered 
his  duty,  and  addressed  himself  with  his  whole  might  to  per- 
form it.  Nor  was  it  in  estrangement  from  men's  interests 
that  this  seclusion  originated ;  but  rather  in  deeper  concern 
for  these.  From  many  indications,  we  can  perceive  that  to 
Schiller  the  task  of  the  Poet  appeared  of  far  weightier  im- 
port to  mankind,  in  these  times,  than  that  of  any  other  man 
whatever.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  '  casting  his  bread 
upon  the  waters,  and  would  find  it  after  many  days ; '  that 
when  the  noise  of  all  conquerors,  and  demagogues,  and  po- 
litical reformers  had  quite  died  away,  some  tone  of  heavenly 
wisdom  that  had  dwelt  even  in  him  might  still  linger  among 
men,  and  be  acknowledged  as  heavenly  and  priceless,  whether 
as  his  or  not ;  whereby,  though  dead,  he  would  yet  speak, 
and  his  spirit  would  live  throughout  all  generations,  when 
the  syllables  that  once  formed  his  name  had  passed  into  for- 
getfulness  forever.  We  are  told,  '  he  was  in  the  highest 
'  degree  philanthropic  and  humane :  and  often  said  that  he 
'  had  no  deeper  wish  than  to  know  all  men  happy.'  What 
was  still  more,  he  strove,  in  his  public  and  private  capacity, 
to  do  his  utmost  for  that  end.  Honest,  merciful,  disinter- 
ested he  is  at  all  times  found :  and  for  the  great  duty  laid  on 
1  Life  of  Schiller. 


SCHILLER. 


277 


him  no  man  was  evermore  unweariedly  ardent.  It  was  his 
evening  song  and  his  morning  prayer.  He  lived  for  it ;  and 
he  died  for  it ;  '  sacrificing,'  in  the  words  of  Goethe,  4  his 
Life  itself  to  this  delineating  of  Life.' 

In  collision  with  his  fellow-men,  for  with  him  as  with 
others  this  also  was  a  part  of  his  relation  to  society,  we  find 
him  no  less  noble  than  in  friendly  union  with  them.  He 
mingles  in  none  of  the  controversies  of  the  time  ;  or  only 
like  a  god  in  the  battles  of  men.  In  his  conduct  towards 
inferiors,  even  ill-intentioned  and  mean  infei"iors,  there  is 
everywhere  a  true,  dignified,  patrician  spirit.  Ever  wit- 
nessing, and  inwardly  lamenting,  the  baseness  of  vulgar  Lit- 
erature in  his  day,  he  makes  no  clamorous  attacks  on  it ; 
alludes  to  it  only  from  afar :  as  in  Milton's  writings,  so  in 
his,  few  of  his  contemporaries  are  named,  or  hinted  at ;  it 
was  not  with  men,  but  with  things  that  he  had  a  warfare. 
The  Revieio  of  Burger,  so  often  descanted  on,  was  doubtless 
highly  afflicting  to  that  down-broken,  unhappy  poet ;  but  no 
hostility  to  Burger,  only  love  and  veneration  for  the  Art  he 
professed,  is  to  be  discerned  in  it.  With  Burger,  or  with 
any  other  mortal,  he  had  no  quarrel :  the  favour  of  the  pub- 
lic, which  he  himself  enjoyed  in  the  highest  measure,  he 
esteemed  at  no  high  value.  1  The  Artist,'  said  he  in  a  noble 
passage,  already  known  to  English  readers,  '  the  Artist,  it  is 
'  true,  is  the  son  of  his  time ;  but  pity  for  him  if  he  is  its 
'  pupil,  or  even  its  favourite  !  Let  some  beneficent  divinity 
'  snatch  him,  when  a  suckling,  from  the  breast  of  his  mother, 
'  and  nurse  him  with  the  milk  of  a  better  time  ;  that  he  may 
1  ripen  to  his  full  stature  beneath  a  distant  Grecian  sky. 
'  And  having  grown  to  manhood,  let  him  return,  a  foreign 
'  shape,  into  his  century  ;  not,  however,  to  delight  it  by  his 
'  presence,  but  dreadful  like  the  son  of  Agamemnon,  to  pu- 
'  rify  it ! '  On  the  whole,  Schiller  has  no  trace  of  vanity ; 
scarcely  of  pride,  even  in  its  best  sense,  for  the  modest  self- 
consciousness,  which  characterises  genius,  is  with  him  rather 
implied  than  openly  expressed.    He  has  no  hatred ;  no  an- 


278 


MISCELLANIES. 


ger,  save  against  Falsehood  and  Baseness,  where  it  may  be 
called  a  holy  anger.  Presumptuous  triviality  stood  bared  in 
his  keen  glance ;  but  his  look  is  the  noble  scowl  that  curls 
the  lip  of  an  Apollo,  when,  pierced  with  sun-arrows,  the 
serpent  expires  before  him.  In  a  word,  we  can  say  of 
Schiller,  what  can  be  said  only  of  few  in  any  country  or 
time :  He  was  a  high  ministering  servant  at  Truth's  altar ; 
and  bore  him  worthily  of  the  office  he  held.  Let  this,  and 
that  it  was  even  in  our  age,  be  forever  remembered  to  his 
praise. 

Schiller's  intellectual  character  has,  as  indeed  is  always 
the  case,  an  accurate  conformity  with  his  moral  one.  Here 
too  he  is  simple  in  his  excellence ;  lofty  rather  than  expan- 
sive or  varied  ;  pure,  divinely  ardent  rather  than  great.  A 
noble  sensibility,  the  truest  sympathy  with  Nature,  in  all 
forms,  animates  him ;  yet  scarcely  any  creative  gift  alto- 
gether commensurate  with  this.  If  to  his  mind's  eye  all 
forms  of  Nature  have  a  meaning  and  beauty,  it  is  only  un- 
der a  few  forms,  chiefly  of  the  severe  or  pathetic  kind,  that 
he  can  body  forth  this  meaning,  can  represent  as  a  Poet 
what  as  a  Thinker  he  discerns  and  loves.  We  might  say, 
his  music  is  true  spheral  music ;  yet  only  with  few  tones,  in 
simple  modulation ;  no  full  choral  harmony  is  to  be  heard  in 
it.  That  Schiller,  at  least  in  his  later  years,  attained  a  gen- 
uine poetic  style,  and  dwelt,  more  or  less,  in  the  perennial 
regions  of  his  Art,  no  one  will  deny :  yet  still  his  poetry 
shows  rather  like  a  partial  than  a  universal  gift ;  the  la- 
boured product  of  certain  faculties  rather  than  the  sponta- 
neous product  of  his  whole  nature.  At  the  summit  of  the 
pyre,  there  is  indeed  white  flame  ;  but  the  materials  are  not 
all  inflamed,  perhaps  not  all  ignited.  Nay  often  it  seems 
to  us,  as  if  poetry  were,  on  the  whole,  not  his  essential  gift ; 
as  if  his  genius  were  reflective  in  a  still  higher  degree  than 
creative  ;  jmilosophical  and  oratorical  rather  than  poetic. 
To  the  last,  there  is  a  stiffness  in  him,  a  certain  infusibility. 
His  genius  is  not  an  iEoliau-harp  for  the  common  wind  to 


SCHILLER. 


279 


play  with,  and  make  wild  free  melody  ;  but  a  scientific  har- 
monica, which  being  artfully  touched  will  yield  rich  notes, 
though  in  limited  measure.  It  may  be,  indeed,  or  rather  it 
is  highly  probable,  that  of  the  gifts  which  lay  in  him  only  a 
small  portion  was  unfolded  :  for  we  are  to  recollect  that 
nothing  came  to  him  without  a  strenuous  effort ;  and  that  he 
was  called  away  at  middle  age.  At  all  events,  here  as  we 
find  him,  we  should  say,  that  of  all  his  endowments  the  most 
perfect  is  understanding.  Accurate,  thorough  insight  is  a 
quality  we  miss  in  none  of  his  productions,  whatever  else 
may  be  wanting.  He  has  an  intellectual  vision,  clear,  wide, 
piercing,  methodical ;  a  truly  philosophic  eye.  Yet  in  re- 
gard to  this  also  it  is  to  be  remarked,  that  the  same  sim- 
plicity, the  same  want  of  universality  again  displays  itself. 
He  looks  aloft  rather  than  around.  It  is  in  high,  far-seeing 
philosophic  views  that  he  delights ;  in  speculations  on  Art, 
on  the  dignity  and  destiny  of  Man,  rather  than  on  the  com- 
mon doings  and  interests  of  Men.  Nevertheless  these  latter, 
mean  as  they  seem,  are  boundless  in  significance ;  for  every 
the  poorest  aspect  of  Nature,  especially  of  living  Nature,  is 
a  type  and  manifestation  of  the  invisible  spmt  that  works  in 
Nature.  There  is  properly  no  object  trivial  or  insignificant : 
but  every  finite  thing,  could  we  look  well,  is  as  a  window, 
through  which  solemn  vistas  are  opened  into  Infinitude  itself. 
But  neither  as  a  Poet  nor  as  a  Thinker,  neither  in  delinea- 
tion nor  in  exposition  and  discussion,  does  Schiller  more 
than  glance  at  such  objects.  For  the  most  part,  the  Com- 
mon is  to  him  still  the  Common  ;  or  is  idealised,  rather  as 
it  were  by  mechanical  art  than  by  inspiration :  not  by  deeper 
poetic  or  philosophic  inspection,  disclosing  new  beauty  in  its 
everyday  features,  but  rather  by  deducting  these,  by  casting 
them  aside,  and  dwelling  on  what  brighter  features  may 
remain  in  it.  Herein  Schiller,  as  indeed  he  himself  was 
modestly  aware,  differs  essentially  from  most  great  poets ; 
and  from  none  more  than  from  his  great  contemporary, 
Goethe.     Such  intellectual  preeminence  as  this,  valuable 


280 


MISCELLANIES. 


though  it  be,  is  the  easiest  and  the  least  valuable ;  a  pre- 
eminence which,  indeed,  captivates  the  general  eye,  but  may, 
after  all,  have  little  intrinsic  grandeur.  Less  in  rising  into 
lofty  abstractions  lies  the  difficulty,  than  in  seeing  well  and 
lovingly  the  complexities  of  what  is  at  hand.  He  is  wise 
who  can  instruct  us  and  assist  us  in  the  business  of  daily  vir- 
tuous living ;  he  who  trains  us  to  see  old  truth  under  Aca- 
demic formularies  may  be  wise  or  not,  as  it  chances ;  but  we 
love  to  see  Wisdom  in  unpretending  forms,  to  recognise  her 
royal  features  under  week-day  vesture.  —  There  may  be 
more  true  spiritual  force  in  a  Proverb  than  in  a  Philosophi- 
cal System.  A  King  in  the  midst  of  his  body-guards,  with 
all  his  trumpets,  war-horses  and  gilt  standard-bearers,  will 
look  great  though  he  be  little ;  but  only  some  Roman  Carus 
can  give  audience  to  satrap-ambassadors,  while  seated  on 
the  ground,  with  a  woollen  cap,  and  supping  on  boiled  pease, 
like  a  common  soldier. 

In  all  Schiller's  earlier  writings,  nay  more  or  less  in  the 
whole  of  his  writings,  this  aristocratic  fastidiousness,  this 
comparatively  barren  elevation,  appears  as  a  leading  char- 
acteristic. In  speculation  he  is  either  altogether  abstract 
and  systematic,  or  he  dwells  on  old,  conventionally-noble 
themes  ;  never  looking  abroad,  over  the  many-coloured 
stream  of  life,  to  elucidate  and  ennoble  it ;  or  only  looking 
on  it,  so  to  speak,  from  a  college  window.  The  philosophy 
even  of  his  Histories,  for  example,  founds  itself  mainly  on 
the  perfectibility  of  man,  the  effect  of  constitutions,  of  relig- 
ions, and  other  such  high,  purely  scientific  objects.  In  his 
Poetry  we  have  a  similar  manifestation.  The  interest  turns 
on  prescribed,  old-established  matters  ;  common  love-mania, 
passionate  greatness,  enthusiasm  for  liberty  and  the  like. 
This  even  in  Don  Karlos  ;  a  work  of  what  may  be  called 
his  transition-period,  the  turning-point  between  his  earlier 
and  his  later  period,  where  still  we  find  Posa,  the  favourite 
hero,  *  towering  aloft,  far-shining,  clear,  and  also  cold  and 
vacant,  as  a  sea-beacon.'     In  after  years,  Schiller  himself 


SCHILLER. 


281 


saw  well  that  the  greatest  lay  not  here.  With  unwearied 
effort  he  strove  to  lower  and  to  widen  his  sphere  ;  and  not 
without  success,  as  many  of  his  Poems  testify ;  for  example, 
the  Lied  der  Glocke  (Song  of  the  Bell),  everyway  a  noble 
composition  ;  and,  in  a  still  higher  degree,  the  tragedy  of 
Wilhelm  Tell,  the  last,  and,  so  far  as  spirit  and  style  are  con- 
cerned, the  best  of  all  his  dramas. 

Closely  connected  with  this  imperfection,  both  as  cause 
and  as  consequence,  is  Schiller's  singular  want  of  Humour. 
Humour  is  properly  the  exponent  of  low  things ;  that  which 
first  renders  them  poetical  to  the  mind.  The  man  of  Hu- 
mour sees  common  life,  even  mean  life,  under  the  new  light 
of  sportfulness  and  love  ;  whatever  has  existence  has  a 
charm  for  him.  Humour  has  justly  been  regarded  as  the 
finest  perfection  of  poetic  genius.  He  who  wants  it,  be  his 
other  gifts  what  they  may,  has  only  half  a  mind ;  an  eye 
for  what  is  above  him,  not  for  what  is  about  him  or  below 
him.  Now,  among  all  writers  of  any  real  poetic  genius, 
we  cannot  recollect  one  who,  in  this  respect,  exhibits  such 
total  deficiency  as  Schiller.  In  his  whole  writings  there  is 
scarcely  any  vestige  of  it,  scarcely  any  attempt  that  way. 
His  nature  was  without  Humour ;  and  he  had  too  true  a 
feeling  to  adopt  any  counterfeit  in  its  stead.  Thus  no  droll- 
ery or  caricature,  still  less  any  barren  mockery,  which,  in  the 
hundred  cases  are  all  that  we  find  passing  current  as  Hu- 
mour, discover  themselves  in  Schiller.  His  works  are  full 
of  laboured  earnestness  ;  he  is  the  gravest  of  all  writers. 
Some  of  his  critical  discussions,  especially  in  the  JEsthetische 
Briefe,  where  he  designates  the  ultimate  height  of  a  man's 
culture  by  the  title  Spieltrieb  (literally,  Sport-impulse), 
prove  that  he  knew  what  Humour  was,  and  how  essential ; 
as  indeed,  to  his  intellect,  all  forms  of  excellence,  even  the 
most  alien  to  his  own,  were  painted  with  a  wonderful  fidelity. 
Nevertheless,  he  himself  attains  not  that  height  which  he 
saw  so  clearly  ;  to  the  last  the  Spieltrieb  could  be  little  more 
than  a  theory  with  him.    With  the  single  exception  of  Wed- 


282 


MISCELLANIES. 


lemteiris  Lager,  where  too,  the  Humour,  if  it  be  such,  is  not 
deep,  his  other  attempts  at  mirth,  fortunately  very  few,  are 
of  the  heaviest.  A  rigid  intensity,  a  serious  enthusiastic 
ardour,  majesty  rather  than  grace,  still  more  than  lightness 
or  sportfulness,  characterises  him.  Wit  he  had,  such  wit  as 
keen  intellectual  insight  can  give ;  yet  even  of  this  no  large 
endowment.  Perhaps  he  was  too  honest,  too  sincere,  for 
the  exercise  of  wit ;  too  intent  on  the  deeper  relations  of 
things  to  note  their  more  transient  collisions.  Besides,  he 
dealt  in  Affirmation,  and  not  in  Negation  ;  in  which  last,  it 
has  been  said,  the  material  of  wit  chiefly  lies. 

These  observations  are  to  point  out  for  us  the  special 
department  and  limits  of  Schiller's  excellence  ;  nowise  to 
call  in  question  its  reality.  Of  his  noble  sense  for  Truth, 
both  in  speculation  and  in  action  ;  of  his  deep  genial  insight 
into  Nature  ;  and  the  living  harmony  in  which  he  renders 
back  what  is  highest  and  grandest  in  Nature,  no  reader  of 
his  works  need  be  reminded.  In  whatever  belongs  to  the 
pathetic,  the  heroic,  the  tragically  elevating,  Schiller  is  at 
home  ;  a  master  ;  nay  perhaps  the  greatest  of  all  late  poets. 
To  the  assiduous  student,  moreover,  much  else  that  lay  in 
Schiller,  but  was  never  worked  into  shape,  will  become  par- 
tially visible :  deep,  inexhaustible  mines  of  thought  and 
feeling ;  a  whole  world  of  gifts,  the  finest  produce  of  which 
was  but  beginning  to  be  realised.  To  his  high-minded, 
unwearied  efforts  what  was  impossible,  had  length  of  years 
been  granted  him  !  There  is  a  tone  in  some  of  his  later 
pieces,  which  here  and  there  breathes  of  the  very  highest 
region  of  Art.  Nor  are  the  natural  or  accidental  defects  we 
have  noticed  in  his  genius,  even  as  it  stands,  such  as  to 
exclude  him  from  the  rank  of  great  Poets.  Poets  whom  the 
whole  world  reckons  great  have,  more  than  once,  exhibited 
the  like.  Milton,  for  example,  shares  most  of  them  with 
him :  like  Schiller,  he  dwells,  with  full  power,  only  in  the 
high  and  earnest ;  in  all  other  provinces  exhibiting  a  certain 
inaptitude,  an  elephantine  unpliancy :  he  too  has  little  II  u- 


SCHILLER. 


283 


mour ;  his  coarse  infective  has  in  it  contemptuous  emphasis 
enough,  yet  scarcely  any  graceful  sport.  Indeed,  on  the 
positive  side  also,  these  two  worthies  are  not  without  a  re- 
semblance. Under  far  other  circumstances,  with  less  mas- 
siveness  and  vehement  strength  of  soul,  there  is  in  Schiller 
the  same  intensity ;  the  same  concentration,  and  towards 
similar  objects,  towards  whatever  is  Sublime  in  Nature  and 
in  Art ;  which  sublimities  they  both,  each  in  his  several  way, 
worship  with  undivided  heart.  There  is  not  in  Schiller's 
nature  the  same  rich  complexity  of  rhythm  as  in  Milton's, 
with  its  depths  of  linked  sweetness  ;  yet  in  Schiller  too  there 
is  something  of  the  same  pure  swelling  force,  some  tone 
which,  like  Milton's,  is  deep,  majestic,  solemn. 

It  was  as  a  Dramatic  Author  that  Schiller  distinguished 
himself  to  the  world  :  yet  often  we  feel  as  if  chance  rather 
than  a  natural  tendency  had  led  him  into  this  province ;  as 
if  his  talent  were  essentially,  in  a  certain  style,  lyrical,  per- 
haps even  epic,  rather  than  dramatic.  He  dwelt  within 
himself,  and  could  not  without  effort,  and  then  only  within  a 
certain  range,  body  forth  other  forms  of  being.  Nay  much 
of  what  is  called  his  poetry  seems  to  us,  as  hinted  above, 
oratorical  rather  than  poetical ;  his  first  bias  might  have  led 
him  to  be  a  speaker,  rather  than  a  singer.  Nevertheless,  a 
pure  fire  dwelt  deep  in  his  soul ;  and  only  in  Poetry,  of  one 
or  the  other  sort,  could  this  find  utterance.  The  rest  of  his 
nature,  at  the  same  time,  has  a  certain  prosaic  rigour  ;  so 
that  not  without  strenuous  and  complex  endeavours,  long 
persisted  in,  could  its  poetic  quality  evolve  itself.  Quite 
pure,  and  as  the  all-sovereign  element,  it  perhaps  never  did 
evolve  itself ;  and  among  such  complex  endeavours,  a  small 
accident  might  influence  large  portions  of  its  course. 

Of  Schiller's  honest,  undivided  zeal  in  this  great  problem 
of  self-cultivation,  we  have  often  spoken.  What  progress  he 
had  made,  and  in  spite  of  what  difficulties,  appears  if  we 
contrast  his  earlier  compositions  with  those  of  his  later  years. 
A  few  specimens  of  both  sorts  we  shall  here  present.  By 


284 


MISCELLANIES. 


this  means  too,  such  of  our  readers  as  are  unacquainted  with 
Schiller  may  gain  some  clearer  notion  of  his  poetic  individ- 
uality than  any  description  of  ours  could  give.  We  shall 
take  the  Bobbers,  as  his  first  performance,  what  he  himself 
calls  '  a  monster  produced  by  the  unnatural  union  of  Genius 
with  Thraldom  ; '  the  fierce  fuliginous  fire  that  burns  in  that 
singular  piece  will  still  be  discernible  in  separated  passages. 
The  following  Scene,  even  in  the  yeasty  vehicle  of  our  com- 
mon English  version,  has  not  wanted  its  admirers  ;  it  is  the 
Second  of  the  Third  Act : 

Country  on  the  Danube. 

THE  ROBBERS. 

(Camped  on  a  Height,  under  Trees:  the  Horses  are  grazing  on  the  Hill 
farther  down.) 

Moor.  I  can  no  farther  (throws  himself  on  the  ground).  My  limbs 
ache  as  if  ground  in  pieces.  My  tongue  parched  as  a  potsherd. 
(Schweitzer  glides  away  unpcrceived.)  I  would  ask  you  to  fetch  me 
a  handful  of  water  from  the  stream ;  but  ye  all  are  wearied  to  death. 

Schwarz.  And  the  wine  too  is  all  down  there,  in  our  jacks. 

Moor.  See,  how  lovely  the  harvest  looks  !  The  trees  almost 
breaking  under  their  load.    The  vine  full  of  hope. 

Grimm.  It  is  a  plentiful  year. 

Moor.  Think'st  thou  ?  —  And  so  one  toil  in  the  world  will  be 
repaid.  One? — Yet  overnight  there  may  come  a  hailstorm,  and 
shatter  it  all  to  ruin. 

Schwarz.  Possible  enough.  It  might  all  be  ruined  two  hours 
before  reaping. 

Moor.  Ay,  so  say  I.  It  will  all  be  ruined.  Why  should  man  pros- 
per in  what  he  has  from  the  Ant ;  when  he  fails  in  what  makes  him 
like  the  Gods  1  —  Or  is  this  the  true  aim  of  his  Destiny  '*. 

Schwarz.  I  know  it  not. 

Moor.  Thou  hast  said  well ;  and  done  still  better,  if  thou  never 
tri'clst  to  know  it !  —  Brother,  —  I  have  looked  at  men,  at  their  insect- 
anxieties  and  giant-projects —  their  godlike  schemes  and  mouselike 
occupations,  their  wondrous  race-running  after  Happiness;  —  he 
trusting  to  the  gallop  of  his  horse, —  he  to  the  nose  of  his  ass,  —  a 
third  to  his  own  legs ;  this  whirling  lottery  of  life,  in  which  so  many 
a  creature  stakes  his  innocence,  and  — his  Heaven  !  all  trying  for  a 
prize,  and  —  blanks  are  tire  whole  drawing,  —  there  was  not  a  prize 


SCHILLER. 


285 


in  the  batch.  It  is  a  drama,  Brother,  to  bring  tears  into  thy  eyes,  if 
it  tickle  thy  midriff  to  laughter. 

Schwarz.  How  gloriously  the  sun  is  setting  yonder  ! 

Moor  (lost  in  the  view).    So  dies  a  hero !    To  be  worshipped  ! 

Grimm.  It  seems  to  move  thee. 

Moor.  "When  I  was  a  lad  —  it  was  my  darling  thought  to  live  so, 
to  die  so  —  [with  suppressed  pain).    It  was  a  lad's  thought ! 
Grimm.  I  hope  so,  truly. 

Moor  (draws  his  hat  down  on  his  face).  There  was  a  time  —  Leave 
me  alone,  comrades. 

Schwarz.  Moor!  Moor!  What,  Devil  ? —  How  his  colour  goes! 
Grimm.  Ha  !  What  ails  him?  Is  he  ill? 

Moor.  There  was  a  time  when  I  could  not  sleep,  if  my  evening 
prayer  had  been  forgotten  — 

Grimm.  Art  thou  going  crazed  ?  Will  Moor  let  such  milksop  fan- 
cies tutor  him  ? 

Moor  (lays  his  head  on  Grimm's  breast).    Brother!  Brother! 
Grimm.  Come!  don't  be  a  child,  —  I  beg  — 
Moor.  Were  I  a  child  !  — 0,  were  I  one  ! 
Grimm.  Pooh  !  Pooh  ! 

Schwarz.  Cheer  up.  Look  at  the  brave  landscape,  —  the  fine 
evening. 

Moor.  Yes,  Friends,  this  world  is  all  so  lovely. 
Schwarz.  There  now  —  that's  right. 
Moor.  This  Earth  so  glorious. 
Grimm.  Right,  —  Right —  that  is  it. 

Moor  (sinking  back).  And  I  so  hideous  in  this  lovely  world,  and  I 
a  monster  in  this  glorious  Earth. 
Grimm.  Out  on  it ! 

Moor.  My  innocence  !  My  innocence  !  —  See,  all  things  are  gone 
forth  to  bask  in  the  peaceful  beam  of  the  Spring,  —  why  must  I 
alone  inhale  the  torments  of  Hell  out  of  the  joys  of  Heaven  ?  —  That 
all  should  be  so  happy,  all  so  married  together  by  the  spirit  of  peace  ! 

—  The  whole  world  one  family,  its  Father  above  —  that  Father  not 
mine!  —  I  alone  the  castaway,  —  I  alone  struck  out  from  the  company 
of  the  just ;  —  for  me  no  child  to  lisp  my  name,  — never  for  me  the 
languishing  look  of  one  whom  I  love,  —  never,  never,  the  embracing 
of  a  bosom-friend  (dashing  wildly  back).    Encircled  with  murderers, 

—  serpents  hissing  round  me,  —  rushing  down  to  the  gulf  of  perdi- 
tion on  the  eddying  torrent  of  wickedness,  — amid  the  flowers  of  the 
glad  world,  a  howling  Abaddon! 

Schwarz  (to  the  rest).  How  is  this  ?    I  never  saw  him  so. 
Moor  (with  piercing  sorrow).  0,  that  I  might  return  into  m}'  moth- 
er's womb,  —  that  I  might  be  born  a  beggar !  —  No  !  I  durst  not  pray, 


28G 


MISCELLANIES. 


O  Heaven,  to  be  as  one  of  these  day-labourers  —  Oh !  I  would  toil 
till  the  blood  ran  down  my  temples  to  buy  myself  the  pleasure  of  one 
noontide  sleep,  —  the  blessedness  of  a  single  tear. 

Grimm  (to  the  rest).  Patience,  a  moment.    The  fit  is  passing. 

Moor.  There  was  a  time  too  when  I  could  weep  —  0  ye  days  of 
peace,  thou  castle  of  my  father,  ye  green  lovely  valleys  !  O  all  ye 
Elysian  scenes  of  my  childhood  !  will  ye  never  come  again,  never 
with  your  balmy  sighing  cool  my  burning  bosom  ?  Mourn  with  me, 
Nature  !  They  will  never  come  again,  never  cool  my  burning  bosom 
with  their  balmy  sighing.  They  are  gone !  gone  !  and  will  not  re- 
turn ! 

Or  take  that  still  wilder  monologue  of  Moor's  on  the  old 
subject  of  suicide ;  in  the  midnight  Forest,  among  the  sleep- 
ing Robbers  : 

(He  lays  aside  the  lute,  and  walks  up  and  down  in  deep  thought.) 

Who  shall  warrant  me?  'Tis  all  so  dark,  —  perplexed  labyrinths, 

—  no  outlet,  no  loadstar —  Were  it  but  over  with  this  last  draught  of 
breath —  Over,  like  a  sorry  farce. — But  whence  this  fierce  Hunger  after 
Happiness  ?  whence  this  ideal  of  a  never-reached  perfection  1  this  contin- 
uation of  uncompleted  plans  ? — if  the  pitiful  pressure  of  this  pitiful 
thing  (holding  out  a  Pistol)  makes  the  wise  man  equal  with  the  fool, 
the  coward  with  the  brave,  the  noble-minded  with  the  caitiff  ?  —  There 
is  so  divine  a  harmony  in  all  irrational  Nature,  why  should  there  be 
this  dissonance  in  rational? — No!  No!  there  is  somewhat  beyond, 
for  I  have  yet  never  known  happiness. 

Think  ye,  I  will  tremble  ?  spirits  of  my  murdered  ones  !  I  will 
not  tremble  (trembling  violently).  —  Your  feeble  dying  moan, — your 
black-choked  faces, — your  frightfully  gaping  wounds  are  but  links 
of  an  unbreakable  chain  of  Destiny  ;  and  depend  at  last  on  my  child- 
ish sports,  on  the  whims  of  my  nurses  and  pedagogues,  on  the  tem- 
perament of  my  father,  on  the  blood  of  my  mother — (shaken  with 
horror).  Why  has  my  Perillus  made  of  me  a  Brazen  Bull  to  roast 
mankind  in  my  glowing  belly  1 

(Gazing  on  the  Pistol.)  Time  and  ETERNITY  —  linked  together  by  a 
single  moment !  —  Dread  kty,  that  sliuttest  behind  me  the  prison  of 
Life,  and  before  me  openest  the  dwelling  of  eternal  Night  —  say  —  0 
say,  —  whither,  —  whither  wilt  thou  lead  me?  Foreign,  never  circum- 
navigated Land!  —  See,  manhood  waxes  faint  under  this  image ;  the 
effort  of  the  finite  gives  up,  and  Fancy,  the  capricious  ape  of  Sense, 
juggles  our  credulity  with  strange  shadows.  —  No  !  No !  It  becomes 
not  a  man  to  waver.  Be  what  thou  wilt,  nameless  Yonder — so  this 
Me  keep  but  true.    Be  what  thou  wilt,  so  I  take  myself  along  with 


SCHILLER. 


287 


me  — !  —  Outward  things  are  but  the  colouring  of  the  man  —  I  am 
my  Heaven  and  my  Hell. 

"What  if  Thou  shouldst  send  me  companionless  to  some  burnt  and 
blasted  circle  of  the  Universe ;  which  Thou  hast  banished  from  Thy 
sight :  where  the  lone  darkness  and  the  motionless  desert  were  my 
prospects  —  forever  ?  —  I  would  people  the  silent  wilderness  with  my 
fantasies  ;  I  should  have  Eternity  for  leisure  to  unravel  the  perplexed 
image  of  the  boundless  woe.  —  Or  wilt  Thou  lead  me  through  still 
other  births  ;  still  other  scenes  of  pain,  from  stage  to  stage  —  onwards 
to  Annihilation  ?  The  life-threads  that  are  to  be  woven  for  me  Yon- 
der, cannot  I  tear  them  asunder,  as  I  do  these  ?  —  Thou  canst  make 
me  Nothing  ;  — but  this  freedom  canst  Thou  not  take  from  me.  (He 
loads  the  Pistol.  Suddenly  he  stops.)  And  shall  I  for  terror  of  a  mis- 
erable life  —  die?  —  Shall  I  give  wretchedness  the  victory  over  me? 
—  No,  I  will  endure  it  (he  throws  the  Pistol  away).  Let  misery  blunt 
itself  on  my  pride  !    I  will  go  through  with  it.1 

And  now  with  these  ferocities,  and  Sibylline  frenzies,  com- 
pare the  placid  strength  of*  the  following  delineation,  also  of 
a  stern  character,  from  the  Maid  of  Orleans ;  where  Talbot, 
the  gray  veteran,  dark,  unbelieving,  indomitable,  passes  down, 
as  he  thinks,  to  the  land  of  utter  Nothingness,  contemptuous 
even  of  the  Fate  that  destroys  him,  and  — 

In  death  reposes  on  the  soil  of  France, 
Like  hero  on  his  unsurrender'd  shield. 

It  is  the  sixth  Scene  of  the  third  Act ;  in  the  heat  of  a 
Battle : 

(  The  scene  changes  to  an  open  Space  encircled  with  Trees.    During  the  music, 
Soldiers  are  seen  hastily  retreating  across  the  Background.) 

talbot,  leaning  on  fastolf,  and  accompanied  by  Soldiers.  Soon 
after,  lkxnel. 

TALBOT. 

Here,  set  me  down  beneath  this  tree,  and  you 
Betake  yourselves  again  to  battle:  quick! 
I  need  no  help  to  die. 

FASTOLF. 

0  clay  of  woe !  [Lionel  enters. 

Look  what  a  sight  awaits  you,  Lionel! 
Our  leader  wounded,  dying ! 


1  Act  iv.  Scene  6. 


MISCELLANIES. 


LIONEL. 

God  forbid! 

0  noble  Talbot,  this  is  not  a  time  to  die: 
Yield  not  to  Death;  force  faltering  Nature 
By  your  strength  of  soul,  that  life  depart  not! 

TALBOT. 

In  vain !  the  day  of  Destiny  is  come 
That  levels  with  the  dust  our  power  in  France. 
In  vain,  in  the  fierce  clash  of  desp'rate  battle, 
Have  I  risk'd  my  utmost  to  withstand  it: 
The  bolt  has  smote  and  crush'd  me,  and  I  lie 
To  rise  no  more  forever.    Rheims  is  lost ; 
Make  haste  to  rescue  Paris. 

LIONEL. 

Paris  is  the  Dauphin's: 
A  post  arrived  even  now  with  th'  evil  news 
It  had  surrender'd. 

talbot  (tears  away  his  barulayes). 

Then  flow  out,  ye  life-streams; 
This  Sun  is  growing  loathsome  to  me. 

LIONEL. 

Fastolf, 

Convey  him  to  the  rear:  this  post  can  hold 

Few  instants  more;  yon  coward  knaves  fall  back, 

Resistless  comes  the  Witch,  and  havoc  round  her. 

TALBOT. 

Madness,  thou  conquerest,  and  I  must  yield: 

Against  Stupidity  the  Gods  themselves  are  powerless. 

High  Reason,  radiant  Daughter  of  the  head  of  God, 

Wise  Foundress  of  the  system  of  the  Universe, 

Conductress  of  the  Stars,  who  art  thou,  then, 

If  tied  to  th'  tail  o'  th'  wild  horse,  Superstition, 

Thou  must  plunge,  eyes  open,  vainly  shrieking, 

Sheer  down  with  that  drunk  Beast  to  the  Abyss? 

Cursed  who  sets  his  life  upon  the  great 

And  dignified;  and  with  forecasting  spirit 

Lays  out  wise  plans!    The  Fool-King's  is  this  World. 

LIONEL. 

Oh!  Death  is  near!  Think  of  your  God,  and  pray! 

TALBOT. 

Were  we,  as  brave  men,  worsted  by  the  brave, 


SCHILLER. 


289 


'T  had  been  bitf  Fortune's  common  fickleness. 
But  that  a  paltry  Farce  should  tread  us  down !  — 
Did  toil  and  peril,  all  our  earnest  life, 
Deserve  no  graver  issue  V 

Lionel  (grasps  his  hand). 

Talbot,  farewell ! 
The  meed  of  bitter  tears  I'll  duly  pay  you, 
When  the  fight  is  done,  should  I  outlive  it. 
But  now  Fate  calls  me  to  the  field,  where  yet 
She  wav'ring  sits,  and  shakes  her  doubtful  urn. 
Farewell!  we  meet  beyond  the  unseen  shore. 
Brief  parting  for  long  friendship !    God  be  with  you !  [Exit. 

TALBOT. 

Soon  it  is  over,  and  to  th'  Earth  I  render, 

To  th'  everlasting  Sun,  the  transient  atoms 

Which  for  pain  and  pleasure  join'd  to  form  me; 

And  of  the  mighty  Talbot,  whose  renown 

Once  fill'd  the  world,  remains  naught  but  a  handful 

Of  flitting  dust.    Thus  man  comes  to  his  end; 

And  all  our  conquest  in  the  fight  of  Life 

Is  knowledge  that  'tis  Nothing,  and  contempt 

For  hollow  shows  which  once  we  chas'd  and  worship'd. 

SCENE  VII. 

Enter  charles,  burgundy,  dunois,  du  chatel,  and  Soldiers. 

BURGUNDY. 

The  trench  is  stormed. 

DUNOIS. 

Bravo !    The  fight  is  ours. 

charles  (observing  talbot). 
Ha!  who  is  this  that  to  the  light  of  day 
Is  bidding  his  constrained  and  sad  farewell  ? 
His  bearing  speaks  no  common  man :  go,  haste, 
Assist  him,  if  assistance  yet  avail. 

[Soldiers  from  the  Dauphin's  suite  step  forward. 

FASTOLF. 

Back !  Keep  away !  Approach  not  the  Departing, 
Him  whom  in  life  ye  never  wished  too  near. 

BURGUNDY. 

What  do  I  see  ?    Great  Talbot  in  his  blood ! 

[He  goes  towards  him.    talbot  gazes  fixedly  at  Mm,  and  dies. 

VOL.  II.  19 


290 


MISCELLANIES. 


FASTOLF. 

Off,  Burgundy !    With  th'  aspect  of  a  Traitor 
Disturb  not  the  last  moment  of  a  Hero. 

The  '  Powei'-words  and  Thunder-words,'  as  the  Germans 
call  them,  so  frequent  in  the  Robbers,1  are  altogether  wanting 
here  ;  that  volcanic  fury  has  assuaged  itself ;  instead  of  smoke 
and  red  lava,  we  have  sunshine  and  a  verdant  world.  For 
still  more  striking  examples  of  this  benignant  change,  we 
might  refer  to  many  scenes  (too  long  for  our  present  pur- 
poses) in  Wallenstein,  and  indeed  in  all  the  Dramas  which 
followed  this,  and  most  of  all  in  Wilhelm  Tell,  which  is  the 
latest  of  them.  The  careful,  and  in  general  truly  poetic  struc- 
ture of  these  works,  considered  as  complete  Poems,  would 
exhibit  it  infinitely  better  ;  but  for  this  object,  larger  limits 
than  ours  at  present,  and  studious  Readers  as  well  as  a 
Reviewer,  were  essential. 

In  his  smaller  Poems  the  like  progress  is  visible.  Schil- 
ler's works  should  all  be  dated,  as  we  study  them  ;  but  indeed 
the  most,  by  internal  evidence,  date  themselves. —  Besides  the 
Lied  der  Glocke,  already  mentioned,  there  are  many  lyrical 
pieces  of  high  merit ;  particularly  a  whole  series  of  Ballads, 
nearly  every  one  of  which  is  true  and  poetical.  The  Sitter 
Toggenburg,  the  Dragon-fight,  the  Diver,  are  all  well  known  ; 
the  Cranes  of  Ibycus  has  in  it,  under  this  simple  form,  some- 
thing Old-Grecian,  an  emphasis,  a  prophetic  gloom  which 
might  seem  borrowed  even  from  the  spirit  of  iEschylus.  But 
on  these,  or  any  farther  on  the  other  poetical  works  of  Schiller, 
we  must  not  dilate  at  present.  One  little  piece,  which  lies  by 
us  translated,  we  may  give,  as  a  specimen  of  his  style  in  this 
lyrical  province,  and  therewith  terminate  this  part  of  our  sub- 
ject. It  is  entitled  Alpenlied  (Song  of  the  Alps),  and  seems 
to  require  no  commentary.  Perhaps  something  of  the  clear, 
melodious,  yet  still  somewhat  metallic,  tone  of  the  original 
may  penetrate  even  through  our  version. 

i  Thus,  to  take  one  often-cited  instance,  Moor's  simple  question, 
'Whether  there  is  any  powder  left?'  receives  this  emphatic  answer: 
'  l'owder  enough  to  blow  the  Earth  into  the  Moon!' 


SCHILLER. 


291 


Song  of  the  Alps. 
By  the  edge  of  the  chasm  is  a  slippery  Track, 
The  torrent  beneath,  and  the  mist  hanging  o'er  thee; 
The  cliffs  of  the  mountain,  huge,  rugged  and  black, 
Are  frowning  like  giants  before  thee: 
And,  wouldst  thou  not  waken  the  sleeping  Lawine, 
Walk  silent  and  soft  through  the  deadly  ravine. 

That  Bridge,  with  its  dizzying,  perilous  span 

Aloft  o'er  the  gulf  and  its  flood  suspended, 

Think'st  thou  it  was  built  by  the  art  of  man, 

By  his  hand  that  grim  old  arch  was  bended? 

Far  down  in  the  jaws  of  the  gloomy  abyss 

The  water  is  boiling  and  hissing,  —  forever  will  hiss. 

That  Gate  through  the  rocks  is  as  darksome  and  drear, 
As  if  to  the  region  of  Shadows  it  carried: 
Yet  enter !    A  sweet  laughing  landscape  is  here, 
Where  the  Spring  with  the  Autumn  is  married. 
From  the  world  with  its  sorrows  and  warfare  and  wail, 
0  could  I  but  hide  in  this  bright  little  vale ! 

Four  Rivers  rush  down  from  on  high, 

Their  spring  will  be  hidden  forever; 

Their  course  is  to  all  the  four  points  of  the  sky, 

To  each  point  of  the  sky  is  a  river; 

And  fast  as  they  start  from  their  old  Mother's  feet, 

They  dash  forth,  and  no  more  will  they  meet. 

Two  Pinnacles  rise  to  the  depths  of  the  Blue: 
Aloft  on  their  white  summits  glancing, 
Bedeck'd  in  their  garments  of  golden  dew, 
The  Clouds  of  the  sky  are  dancing; 
There  threading  alone  their  lightsome  maze, 
Uplifted  apart  from  all  mortals'  gaze. 

And  high  on  her  ever-enduring  throne 
The  Queen  of  the  mountains  reposes ; 
Her  head  serene,  and  azure,  and  lone, 
A  diamond  crown  encloses; 

The  Sun  with  his  darts  shoots  round  it  keen  and  hot, 
He  gilds  it  always,  he  warms  it  not. 

Of  Schiller's  Philosophic  talent,  still  more  of  the  results  he 
had  arrived  at  in  philosophy,  there  were  much  to  he  said  and 
thought  ;  which  we  must  not  enter  upon  here.  As  hinted 
above,  his  primary  endowment  seems  to  us  fully  as  much 


292 


MISCELLANIES. 


philosophical  as  poetical :  his  intellect,  at  all  events,  is  pecu- 
liarly of  that  character ;  strong,  penetrating,  yet  systematic 
and  scholastic,  rather  than  intuitive;  and  manifesting  this 
tendency  both  in  the  objects  it  treats,  and  in  its  mode  of  treat- 
ing them.  The  Transcendental  Philosophy,  which  arose  in 
Schiller's  busiest  era,  could  not  remain  without  influence  on 
him :  he  had  carefully  studied  Kant's  System,  and  appears  to 
have  not  only  admitted  but  zealously  appropriated  its  funda- 
mental doctrines  ;  remoulding  them,  however,  into  his  own 
peculiar  forms,  so  that  they  seem  no  longer  borrowed,  but 
permanently  acquired,  not  less  Schiller's  than  Kant's.  Some, 
perhaps  little  aware  of  his  natural  wants  and  tendencies,  are 
of  opinion  that  these  speculations  did  not  profit  him :  Schiller 
himself,  on  the  other  hand,  appears  to  have  been  well  con- 
tented with  his  Philosophy;  in  which,  as  harmonised  with 
his  Poetry,  the  assurance  and  safe  anchorage  for  his  moral 
nature  might  lie. 

'  From  the  opponents  of  the  New  Philosophy,'  says  he,  '  I  expect 
not  that  tolerance,  which  is  shown  to  every  other  system,  no  better 
seen  into  than  this  :  for  Kant's  Philosophy  itself,  in  its  leading  points, 
practises  no  tolerance  ;  and  bears  much  too  rigorous  a  character,  to 
leave  any  room  for  accommodation.  But  in  my  eyes  this  does  it 
honour ;  proving  how  little  it  can  endure  to  have  truth  tampered 
with.  Such  a  Philosophy  will  not  be  discussed  with  a  mere  shake 
of  the  head.  In  the  open,  clear,  accessible  field  of  Inquiry  it  builds 
up  its  system  ;  seeks  no  shade,  makes  no  reservation  :  but  even  as  it 
treats  its  neighbours,  so  it  requires  to  be  treated ;  and  may  be  for- 
given for  lightly  esteeming  everything  but  Proofs.  Nor  am  I  terri- 
fied to  think  that  the  Law  of  Change,  from  which  no  human  and  no 
divine  work  finds  grace,  will  operate  on  this  Philosophy,  as  on  every 
other,  and  one  day  its  Form  will  be  destroyed  :  but  its  Foundations 
will  not  have  this  destiny  to  fear ;  for  ever  since  mankind  has  existed, 
and  any  Reason  among  mankind,  these  same  first  principles  have  been 
admitted,  and  on  the  whole  acted  upon.' 1 

Schiller's  philosophical  performances  relate  chiefly  to  mat- 
ters of  Art ;  not,  indeed,  without  significant  glances  into  still 
more  important  regions  of  speculation  :  nay  Art,  as  he  viewed 

1  Correspondence  with  Goethe,  i.  58. 


SCHILLER. 


293 


it,  has  its  basis  on  the  most  important  intei'ests  of  man,  and 
of  itself  involves  the  harmonious  adjustment  of  these.  We 
have  already  undertaken  to  present  our  readers,  on  a  future 
occasion,  with  some  abstract  of  the  Esthetic  Letters,  one  of 
the  deepest,  most  compact  pieces  of  reasoning  we  are  any- 
where acquainted  with.:  by  that  opportunity,  the  general 
character  of  Schiller,  as  a  Philosopher,  will  best  fall  to  be 
discussed.  Meanwhile,  the  two  following  brief  passages,  as 
some  indication  of  his  views  on  the  highest  of  all  philosoph- 
ical questions,  may  stand  here  without  commentary.  He  is 
speaking  of  Wilhelm  Meister,  and  in  the  first  extract,  of  the 
Fair  Saint's  Confessions,  which  occupy  the  Sixth  Book  of 
that  work : 

'  The  transition  from  Religion  in  general  to  the  Christian  Eeligion, 
by  the  experience  of  sin,  is  excellently  conceived.  *  *  *  I  find  vir- 
tually in  the  Christian  System  the  rudiments  of  the  Highest  and 
Noblest ;  and  the  different  phases  of  this  System,  in  practical  life, 
are  so  offensive  and  mean,  precisely  because  they  are  bungled  repre- 
sentations of  that  same  Highest.  If  you  study  the  specific  character 
of  Christianity,  what  distinguishes  it  from  all  monotheistic  Religions, 
it  lies  in  nothing  else  than  in  that  making-dead  of  the  Law,  the  removal 
of  that  Kantean  Imperative,  instead  of  which  Christianity  requires 
a  free  Inclination.  It  is  thus,  in  its  pure  form,  a  representing  of 
Moral  Beauty,  or  the  Incarnation  of  the  Holy ;  and  in  this  sense, 
the  only  cesthetic  Religion  :  hence,  too,  I  explain  to  myself  why  it  so 
prospers  with  female  natures,  and  only  in  women  is  now  to  be  met 
with  under  a  tolerable  figure.' 1 

'But  in  seriousness,' he  says  elsewhere,  'whence  may  it  proceed 
that  you  have  had  a  man  educated,  and  in  all  points  equipt,  without 
ever  coming  upon  certain  wants  which  only  Philosophy  can  meet  ? 
I  am  convinced,  it  is  entirely  attributable  to  the  aesthetic  direction  you 
have  taken,  through  the  whole  Romance.  Within  the  Eesthetic  temper 
there  arises  no  want  of  those  grounds  of  comfort,  which  are  to  be 
drawn  from  speculation  :  such  a  temper  has  self-subsistence,  has  in- 
finitude, within  itself ;  only  when  the  Sensual  and  the  Moral  in  man 
strive  hostilely  together,  need  help  be  sought  of  pure  Reason.  A 
healthy  poetic  nature  wants,  as  you  yourself  say,  no  Moral  Law,  no 
Rights  of  Man,  no  Political  Metaphysics.  You  might  have  added 
as  well,  it  wants  no  Deity,  no  Immortality,  to  stay  and  uphold  itself 

1  Correspondence,  i.  195. 


294 


MISCELLANIES. 


withal.  Those  three  points  round  which,  in  the  long-run,  all  specu- 
lation turns,  may  in  truth  afford  such  a  nature  matter  for  poetic  play, 
but  can  never  become  serious  concerns  and  necessities  for  it.' 1 

This  last  seems  a  singular  opinion  ;  and  may  prove,  if 
it  be  correct,  that  Schiller  himself  was  no  '  healthy  poetic 
nature ; '  for  undoubtedly  with  him  those  three  points  were 
'  serious  concerns  and  necessities  ; '  as  many  portions  of  his 
works,  and  various  entire  treatises,  will  testify.  Neverthe- 
less, it  plays  an  important  part  in  his  theories  of  Poetry  ; 
and  often,  under  milder  forms,  returns  on  us  there. 

But,  without  entering  farther  on  those  complex  topics,  we 
must  here  for  the  present  take  leave  of  Schiller.  Of  his 
merits  we  have  all  along  spoken  rather  on  the  negative  side  ; 
and  we  rejoice  in  feeling  authorised  to  do  so.  That  any 
German  writer,  especially  one  so  dear  to  us,  should  already 
stand  so  high  with  British  readers  that,  in  admiring  him,  the 
critic  may  also,  without  prejudice  to  right  feeling  on  the 
subject,  coolly  judge  of  him,  cannot  be  other  than  a  grati- 
fying circumstance.  Perhaps  there  is  no  other  true  Poet 
of  that  nation  with  whom  the  like  course  would  be  suitable. 

Connected  with  this  there  is  one  farther  observation  we 
must  make  before  concluding.  Among  younger  students  of 
German  Literature,  the  question  often  arises,  and  is  warmly 
mooted  :  Whether  Schiller  or  Goethe  is  the  greater  Poet  ? 
Of  this  question  we  must  be  allowed  to  say  that  it  seems 
rather  a  slender  one,  and  for  two  reasons.  First,  because 
Schiller  and  Goethe  are  of  totally  dissimilar  endowments 
and  endeavours,  in  regard  to  all  matters  intellectual,  and 
cannot  well  be  compared  together  as  Poets.  Secondly,  be- 
cause if  the  question  mean  to  ask,  which  Poet  is  on  the 
whole  the  rarer  and  more  excellent,  as  probably  it  does,  it 
must  be  considered  as  long  ago  abundantly  answered.  To 
the  clear-sighted  and  modest  Schiller,  above  all,  such  a  ques- 
tion would  have  appeared  surprising.  No  one  knew  better 
1  Correspondence,  ii.  131. 


SCHILLER. 


295 


than  himself,  that  as  Goethe  was  a  born  Poet,  so  he  was  in 
great  part  a  made  Poet ;  that  as  the  one  spirit  was  intuitive, 
all-embracing,  instinct  with  melody,  so  the  other  was  scho- 
lastic, divisive,  only  partially  and  as  it  were  artificially  melo- 
dious. Besides,  Goethe  has  lived  to  perfect  his  natural  gift, 
which  the  less  happy  Schiller  was  not  permitted  to  do.  The 
former  accordingly  is  the  national  Poet ;  the  latter  is  not, 
and  never  could  have  been.  "We  once  heard  a  German  re- 
mark that  readers  till  their  twenty-fifth  year  usually  prefer 
Schiller  ;  after  their  twenty-fifth  year,  Goethe.  This  prob- 
ably was  no  unfair  illustration  of  the  question.  Schiller  can 
seem  higher  than  Goethe  only  because  he  is  narrower.  Thus 
to  unpractised  eyes,  a  Peak  of  Teneriffe,  nay  a  Strasburg 
Minster,  when  we  stand  on  it,  may  seem  higher  than  a 
Chimborazo  ;  because  the  former  rise  abruptly,  without  abut- 
ment or  environment ;  the  latter  rises  gradually,  canying 
half  a  world  aloft  with  it ;  and  only  the  deeper  azure  of  the 
heavens,  the  widened  horizon,  the  '  eternal  sunshine,'  disclose 
to  the  geographer  that  the  '  Region  of  Change '  lies  far  below 
him. 

However,  let  us  not  divide  these  two  Friends,  who  in  life 
were  so  benignantly  united.  Without  asserting  for  Schiller 
any  claim  that  even  enemies  can  dispute,  enough  will  remain 
for  him.  We  may  say  that,  as  a  Poet  and  Thinker,  he  at- 
tained to  a  perennial  Truth,  and  ranks  among  the  noblest 
productions  of  his  century  and  nation.  Goethe  may  continue 
the  German  Poet,  but  neither  through  long  generations  can 
Schiller  be  forgotten.    '  His  works  too,  the  memory  of  what 

•  he  did  and  was,  will  arise  afar  off  like  a  towering  landmark 

•  in  the  solitude  of  the  Past,  when  distance  shall  have  dwarfed 

•  into  invisibility  many  lesser  people  that  once  encompassed 

•  him,  and  hid  him  from  the  ne,ar  beholder.' 


296 


MISCELLANIES. 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED.l 
[1831.] 

In  the  year  1757,  the  Swiss  Professor  Bodrner  printed 
an  ancient  poetical  manuscript,  under  the  title  of  Chriem- 
hilden  Rache  und  die  Klage  (Chrierahilde's  Revenge,  and 
the  Lament)  ;  which  may  be  considered  as  the  first  of  a 
series,  or  stream  of  publications  and  speculations  still  rolling 
on,  with  increased  current,  to  the  present  day.  Not,  indeed, 
that  all  these  had  their  source  or  determining  cause  in  so 
insignificant  a  circumstance  ;  their  source,  or  rather  thousand 
sources,  lay  far  elsewhere.  As  has  often  been  remarked, 
a  certain  antiquarian  tendency  in  literature,  a  fonder,  more 
earnest  looking  back  into  the  Past,  began  about  that  time  to 
manifest  itself  in  all  nations  (witness  our  own  Percy's  Re- 
liques)  :  this  was  among  the  first  distinct  symptoms  of  it  in 
Germany  ;  where,  as  with  ourselves,  its  manifold  effects  are 
still  visible  enough. 

Some  fifteen  years  after  Bodmer's  publication,  which,  for 
the  rest,  is  not  celebrated  as  an  editorial  feat,  one  C.  H. 
M filler  undertook  a  Collection  of  German  Poems  from  the 
Twelfth,  Thirteenth  and  Fourteenth  Centuries ;  wherein, 
among  other  articles,  he  reprinted  Bodmer's  Chriemhilde 
and  Klage,  with  a  highly  remarkable  addition  prefixed  to 
the  former,  essential  indeed  to  the  right  understanding  of  it ; 
.and  the  whole  now  stood  before  the  world  as  one  Poem, 

i  Westminster  Review,  No.  29.  —  Das  Nibelunr/en  Lied,  iibersetzt  von 
Karl  Simrock  (The  Nibelungen  Lied,  translated  by  Karl  Simrock).  2  vols. 
12mo.   Berlin,  1827. 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


297 


under  the  name  of  the  Nibelungen  Lied,  or  Lay  of  the  Nibe- 
lungen.  It  has  since  been  ascertained  that  the  Klage  is  a 
foreign  inferior  appendage  ;  at  best,  related  only  as  epilogue 
to  the  main  work  :  meanwhile  out  of  this  Nibelungen,  such 
as  it  was,  there  soon  proceeded  new  inquiries,  and  kindred 
enterprises.  For  much  as  the  Poem,  in  the  shape  it  here 
bore,  was  defaced  and  marred,  it  failed  not  to  attract  obser- 
vation :  to  all  open-minded  lovers  of  poetry,  especially  where 
a  strong  patriotic  feeling  existed,  the  singular  antique  Nibe- 
lungen was  an  interesting  appearance.  Johannes  Miiller,  in 
his  famous  Swiss  History,  spoke  of  it  in  warm  terms :  subse- 
quently, August  Wilhelm  Schlegel,  through  the  medium  of 
the  Deutsche  Musetim,  succeeded  in  awakening  something 
like  a  universal  popular  feeling  on  the  subject ;  and,  as  a 
natural  consequence,  a  whole  host  of  Editors  and  Critics,  of 
deep  and  of  shallow  endeavour,  whose  labours  we  yet  see  in 
progress.  The  Nibelungen  has  now  been  investigated,  trans- 
lated, collated,  commented  upon,  with  more  or  less  result,  to 
almost  boundless  lengths  :  besides  the  "Work  named  at  the 
head  of  this  Paper,  and  which  stands  there  simply  as  one  of 
the  latest,  we  have  Versions  into  the  modern  tongue  by  Von 
der  Hagen,  by  Hinsberg,  Lachmann,  Busching,  Zeune,  the 
last  in  Prose,  and  said  to  be  worthless ;  Criticisms,  Introduc- 
tions, Keys,  and  so  forth,  by  innumerable  others,  of  whom  we 
mention  only  Docen  and  the  Brothers  Grimm. 

By  which  means,  not  only  has  the  Poem  itself  been  eluci- 
dated with  all  manner  of  researches,  but  its  whole  environ- 
ment has  come  forth  in  new  light :  the  scene  and  personages 
it  relates  to,  the  other  fictions  and  traditions  connected  with 
it,  have  attained  a  new  importance  and  coherence.  Manu- 
scripts, that  for  ages  had  lain  dormant,  have  issued  from  their 
archives  into  public  view  ;  books  that  had  circulated  only  in 
mean  guise  for  the  amusement  of  the  people,  have  become 
important,  not  to  one  or  two  virtuosos,  but  to  the  general 
body  of  the  learned :  and  now  a  whole  System  of  antique 
Teutonic  Fiction  and  Mythology  unfolds  itself,  shedding  here 


298 


miscellanies. 


and  there  a  real  though  feeble  and  uncertain  glimmer  over 
what  was  once  the  total  darkness  of  the  old  Time.  No  fewer 
than  Fourteen  ancient  Traditionary  Poems,  all  strangely  in- 
tertwisted, and  growing  out  of  and  into  one  another,  have 
come  to  light  among  the  Germans ;  who  now,  in  looking 
back,  find  that  they  too,  as  well  as  the  Greeks,  have  their 
Heroic  Age,  and  round  the  old  Valhalla,  as  their  Northern 
Pantheon,  a  world  of  demi-gods  and  wonders. 

Such  a  phenomenon,  unexpected  till  of  late,  cannot  but 
interest  a  deep-thinking,  enthusiastic  people.  For  the  Nibe- 
lungen especially,  which  lies  as  the  centre  and  distinct  key- 
stone of  the  whole  too  chaotic  System,  —  let  us  say  rather, 
blooms  as  a  firm  sunny  island  in  the  middle  of  these  cloud- 
covered,  ever-shifting  sand-whirlpools,  —  they  cannot  suf- 
ficiently testify  their  love  and  veneration.  Learned  profes- 
sors lecture  on  the  Nibelungen  in  public  schools,  with  a 
praiseworthy  view  to  initiate  the  German  youth  in  love  of 
their  fatherland ;  from  many  zealous  and  nowise  ignorant 
critics  we  hear  talk  of  a  '  great  Northern  Epos,'  of  a  '  Ger- 
man Iliad  ; '  the  more  saturnine  are  shamed  into  silence,  or 
hollow-mouth-homage :  thus  from  all  quarters  comes  a  sound 
of  joyful  acclamation ;  the  Nibelungen  is  welcomed  as  a 
precious  national  possession,  recovered  after  six  centuries  of 
neglect,  and  takes  undisputed  place  among  the  sacred  books 
of  German  literature. 

Of  these  curious  transactions  some  rumour  has  not  failed 
to  reach  us  in  England,  where  our  minds,  from  their  own 
antiquarian  disposition,  were  willing  enough  to  receive  it. 
Abstracts  and  extracts  of  the  Nibelungen  have  been  printed 
in  our  language  ;  there  have  been  disquisitions  on  it  in  our 
Reviews  :  hitherto,  however,  such  as  nowise  to  exhaust  the 
subject.  On  the  contrary,  where  so  much  was  to  be  told  at 
once,  the  speaker  might  be  somewhat  puzzled  where  to 
begin  :  it  was  a  much  readier  method  to  begin  with  the  end, 
or  with  any  part  of  the  middle,  than  like  Hamilton's  Ram 
(whose  example  is  too  little  followed  in  literary  narrative)  to 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


299 


begin  with  the  beginning.  Thus  has  our  stock  of  intelli- 
gence come  rushing  out  on  us  quite  promiscuously  and  pell- 
mell  ;  whereby  the  whole  matter  could  not  but  acquire  a 
tortuous,  confused,  altogether  inexplicable  and  even  dreary 
aspect ;  and  the  class  of  '  well-informed  persons '  now  find 
themselves  in  that  uncomfortable  position,  where  they  are 
obliged  to  profess  admiration,  and  at  the  same  time  feel  that, 
except  by  name,  they  know  not  what  the  thing  admired  is. 
Such  a  position  towards  the  venerable  Nibelungen,  which  is 
no  less  bright  and  graceful  than  historically  significant,  can- 
not be  the  right  one.  Moreover,  as  appears  to  us,  it  might 
be  somewhat  mended  by  very  simple  means.  Let  any  one 
that  had  honestly  read  the  Nibelungen,  which  in  these  days 
is  no  surprising  achievement,  only  tell  us  what  he  found 
there,  and  nothing  that  he  did  not  find  :  we  should  then 
know  something,  and,  what  were  still  better,  be  ready  for 
knowing  more.  To  search  out  the  secret  roots  of  such  a 
production,  ramified  through  successive  layers  of  centuries, 
and  drawing  nourishment  from  each,  may  be  work,  and  too 
hard  work,  for  the  deepest  philosopher  and  critic ;  but  to 
look  with  natural  eyes  on  what  part  of  it  stands  visibly 
above  ground,  and  record  his  own  experiences  thereof,  is 
what  any  reasonable  mortal,  if  he  will  take  heed,  can  do. 

Some  such  slight  service  we  here  intend  proffering  to  our 
readers :  let  them  glance  with  us  a  little  into  that  mighty 
maze  of  Northern  Archaeology ;  where,  it  may  be,  some 
pleasant  prospects  will  open.  If  the  Nibelungen  is  what  we 
have  called  it,  a  firm  sunny  island  amid  the  weltering  chaos 
of  antique  tradition,  it  must  be  worth  visiting  on  general 
grounds  ;  nay,  if  the  primeval  rudiments  of  it  have  the  an- 
tiquity assigned  them,  it  belongs  specially  to  us  English 
Teutones  as  well  as  to  the  German. 

Far  be  it  from  us,  meanwhile,  to  venture  rashly,  or  farther 
than  is  needful,  into  that  same  traditionary  chaos,  fondly 
named  the  '  Cycle  of  Northern  Fiction,'  with  its  Fourteen 
Sectors  (or  separate  Poems),  which  are  rather  Fourteen 


300 


MISCELLANIES. 


shoreless  Limbos,  where  we  hear  of  pieces  containing  ;a 
hundred  thousand  verses,'  and  'seventy  thousand  verses,'  as 
of  a  quite  natural  affair !  How  travel  through  that  inane 
country ;  by  what  art  discover  the  little  grain  of  Substance 
that  casts  such  multiplied  immeasurable  Shadows  ?  The 
primeval  Mythus,  were  it  at  first  philosophical  truth,  or  were 
it  historical  incident,  floats  too  vaguely  on  the  breath  of  men  : 
each  successive  Singer  and  Redactor  furnishes  it  with  new 
personages,  new  scenery,  to  please  a  new  audience  ;  each 
has  the  privilege  of  inventing,  and  the  far  wider  privilege 
of  borrowing  and  new-modelling  from  all  that  have  preceded 
him.  Thus  though  Tradition  may  have  but  one  root,  it 
grows  like  a  Banian,  into  a  whole  overarching  labyrinth  of 
trees.  Or  rather  might  we  say,  it  is  a  Hall  of  Mirrors, 
where  in  pale  light  each  mirror  reflects,  convexly  or  con- 
cavely,  not  only  some  real  Object,  but  the  Shadows  of  this 
in  other  mirrors  ;  which  again  do  the  like  for  it :  till  in  such 
reflection  and  re-reflection  the  whole  immensity  is  filled  with 
dimmer  and  dimmer  shapes  ;  and  no  firm  scene  lies  round 
us,  but  a  dislocated,  distorted  chaos,  fading  away  on  all 
hands,  in  the  distance,  into  utter  night.  Only  to  some  brave 
Von  der  Hagen,  furnished  with  indefatigable  ardour,  and  a 
deep,  almost  religious  love,  is  it  given  to  find  sure  footing 
there,  and  see  his  way.  All  those  Duhes  of  Aquitania, 
therefore,  and  EtzeVs  Court-holdings,  and  Dietrichs  and 
Sige?iots  we  shall  leave  standing  where  they  are.  Such  as 
desire  farther  information,  will  find  an  intelligible  account 
of  the  whole  Series  or  Cycle,  in  Messrs.  Weber  and  Jamie- 
son's  Illustrations  of  Northern  Antiquities  ;  and  all  possible 
furtherance,  in  the  numerous  German  works  above  alluded 
to ;  among  which  Von  der  Hagen's  writings,  though  not  the 
readiest,  are  probably  the  safest  guides.  But  for  us,  our 
business  here  is  with  the  Nibelungen,  the  inhabited  poetic 
country  round  which  all  these  wildernesses  lie ;  only  as  en- 
vironments of  which,  as  routes  to  which,  are  they  of  moment 
to  us.    Perhaps  our  shortest  and  smoothest  route  will  be 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


301 


through  the  Heldenhuch  (Hero-book)  ;  which  is  greatly  the 
most  important  of  these  subsidiary  Fictions,  not  without  in- 
terest of  its  own,  and  closely  related  to  the  Nibelungen. 
This  Heldenhuch,  therefore,  we  must  now  address  ourselves 
to  traverse  with  all  despatch.  At  the  present  stage  of  the 
business  too,  we  shall  forbear  any  historical  inquiry  and 
argument  concerning  the  date  and  local  habitation  of  those 
Traditions  ;  reserving  what  little  is  to  be  said  on  that  matter 
till  the  Traditions  themselves  have  become  better  known  to 
us.  Let  the  reader,  on  trust  for  the  present,  transport  him- 
self into  the  twelfth  or  thirteenth  century  ;  and  therefrom 
looking  back  into  the  sixth  or  fifth,  see  what  presents  itself. 

Of  the  Heldenhuch,  tried  on  its  own  merits,  and  except  as 
illustrating  that  other  far  worthier  Poem,  or  at  most  as  an 
old  national,  and  still  in  some  measure  popular  book,  we 
should  have  felt  strongly  inclined  to  say,  as  the  Curate  in 
Don  Quixote  so  often  did,  Al  corral  con  ello,  Out  of  window 
with  it !  Doubtless  there  are  touches  of  beauty  in  the  work, 
and  even  a  sort  of  heartiness  and  antique  quaintness  in  its 
wildest  follies  ;  but  on  the  whole  that  George-and-Dragon 
species  of  composition  has  long  ceased  to  find  favour  with 
any  one  ;  and  except  for  its  groundwork,  more  or  less  dis- 
cernible, of  old  Northern  Fiction,  this  Heldenhuch  has  little 
to  distinguish  it  from  these.  Nevertheless,  what  is  worth 
remark,  it  seems  to  have  been  a  far  higher  favourite  than 
the  Nibelungen,  with  ancient  readers  :  it  was  printed  soon 
after  the  invention  of  printing;  some  think  in  1472,  for 
there  is  no  place  or  date  on  the  first  edition ;  at  all  events, 
in  1491,  in  1509,  and  repeatedly  since  ;  whei'eas  the  Nibe- 
lungen, though  written  earlier,  and  in  worth  immeasurably 
superior,  had  to  remain  in  manuscript  three  centuries  longer. 
From  which,  for  the  thousandth  time,  inferences  might  be 
drawn  as  to  the  infallibility  of  popular  taste,  and  its  value 
as  a  criterion  for  poetry.  However,  it  is  pi-obably  in  virtue 
of  this  neglect,  that  the  Nibelungen  boasts  of  its  actual 


302 


MISCELLANIES. 


purity  ;  that  it  now  comes  before  us,  clear  and  graceful  as 
it  issued  from  the  old  Singer's  head  and  heart;  not  over- 
loaded with  Ass-eared  Giants,  Fiery  Dragons,  Dwarfs  and 
Hairy  Women,  as  the  Heldenbuch  is,  many  of  which,  as 
charity  would  hope,  may  be  the  produce  of  a  later  age  than 
that  famed  Swabian  Era,  to  which  these  poems,  as  we  now 
see  them,  are  commonly  referred.  Indeed,  one  Casper  von 
Roen  is  understood  to  have  passed  the  whole  Heldenbuch 
through  his  limbec,  in  the  fifteenth  century  ;  but  like  other 
rectifiers,  instead  of  purifying  it,  to  have  only  drugged  it 
with  still  fiercer  ingredients  to  suit  the  sick  appetite  of  the 
time. 

Of  this  drugged  and  adulterated  Hero-book  (the  only  one 
we  yet  have,  though  there  is  talk  of  a  better)  we  shall 
quote  the  long  Title-page  of  Lessing's  Copy,  the  edition  of 
1560;  from  which,  with  a  few  intercalated  observations,  the 
reader's  curiosity  may  probably  obtain  what  little  satisfaction 
it  wants : 

Das  Heldenbuch,  welchs  anffs  new  corrigirt  und  gebessert 
ist,  mit  shonen  Figuren  geziert.  Gedruckt  zu  Frankfurt  am 
Mayn,  durch  Weygand  Han  und  Sygmund  Feyerabend,  &c. 
That  is  to  say  : 

'  The  Hero-book,  which  is  of  new  corrected  and  improved, 
'•  adorned  with  beautiful  Figures.  Printed  at  Frankfurt  on 
'  the  Mayn,  through  Weygand  Han  and  Sygmund  Feyera- 
'  bend. 

'Part  First  saith  of  Kaiser  Ottnit  and  the  little  King 
'  Elberich,  how  they  with  great  peril,  over  sea,  in  Heathen- 
'  dom,  won  from  a  king  his  daughter  (and  how  he  in  lawful 
'  marriage  took  her  to  wife).' 

From  which  announcement  the  reader  already  guesses  the 
contents :  how  this  little  King  Elberich  was  a  Dwarf,  or  Elf, 
some  half-span  long,  yet  full  of  cunning  practices,  and  the 
most  helpful  activity  ;  nay,  stranger  still,  had  been  Kaiser 
Ottnit  of  Lampartei  or  Lombardy's  father,  —  having  had  his 
own  ulterior  views  in  that  indiscretion.    How  they  sailed 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


303 


with  Messina  ships,  jnto  Paynim  land ;  fought  with  that  un- 
speakable Turk,  King  Machabol,  in  and  about  his  fortress 
and  metropolis  of  Montebur,  which  was  all  stuck  round  with 
christian  heads ;  slew  from  seventy  to  a  hundred  thousand  of 
the  Infidels  at  one  heat ;  saw  the  lady  on  the  battlements  ; 
and  at  length,  chiefly  by  Dwarf  Elberich's  help,  carried  her 
off  in  triumph ;  wedded  her  in  Messina ;  and  without  diffi- 
culty, rooting  out  the  Mahometan  prejudice,  converted  her 
to  the  creed  of  Mother  Church.  The  fair  runaway  seems 
to  have  been  of  a  gentle,  tractable  disposition,  very  different 
from  old  Machabol ;  concerning  whom  it  is  here  chiefly  to  be 
noted  that  Dwarf  Elberich,  rendering  himself  invisible  on 
their  first  interview,  plucks  out  a  handful  of  hair  from  his 
chin  ;  thereby  increasing  to  a  tenfold  pitch  the  royal  choler ; 
and,  what  is  still  more  remarkable,  furnishing  the  poet  Wie- 
land,  six  centuries  afterwards,  with  the  critical  incident  in  his 
Oberon.  As  for  the  young  lady  herself,  we  cannot  but  admit 
that  she  was  well  worth  sailing  to  Heathendom  for  ;  and 
shall  here,  as  our  sole  specimen  of  that  old  German  doggerel, 
give  the  description  of  her,  as  she  first  appeared  on  the  bat- 
tlements during  the  fight ;  subjoining  a  version  as  verbal  and 
literal  as  the  plainest  prose  can  make  it.  Considered  as  a 
detached  passage,  it  is  perhaps  the  finest  we  have  met  with 
in  the  Heldenbuch. 

Jhr  herz  brann  also  scheme, 
Recht  ah  ein  rot  rubein, 
Gleich  dem  volkn  mom 
Gaben  ihr  auglein  schein. 
Sich  hett  die  maget  reine 
If  it  rosen  wold  bekleid 
Vnd  audi  mil  berlin  Heine  ; 
Niemand  da  trust  die  meid. 

Her  heart  burnt  (with  anxiety)  as  beautiful 
Just  as  a  red  ruby, 
Like  the  full  moon 

Her  eyes  (eyelings,  pretty  eyes)  gave  sheen. 
Herself  had  the  maiden  pure 
Well  adorned  with  roses, 


MISCELLANIES. 


And  also  with  pearls  small  : 

No  one  there  comforted  the  maid. 

Sit  war  schdn  an  dem  leibe, 
Und  zu  den  seiten  schmal ; 
Recki  als  ein  kertze  scheibe 
Wohlgeschaffen  uberall: 
Jhr  beyden  hand  gemeine 
Bars  Sir  gentz  nichts  gebrach; 
Jhr  naglein  schdn  und  reine, 
Das  man  sich  darin  besach. 

She  was  fair  of  body, 

And  in  the  waist  slender; 

Eight  as  a  (golden)  candlestick 

Well-fashioned  everywhere : 

Her  two  hands  proper, 

So  that  she  wanted  naught; 

Her  little  nails  fair  and  pure, 

That  you  could  see  yourself  therein. 

Jhr  har  war  schdn  umbfangen 
Mit  elder  seiden  J'ein  ; 
Das  liess  sie  nieder  hangen, 
Das  hiibsche  magedltin. 
Sie  trug  ein  hron  mil  sleinen, 
Sie  war  von  gold  so  rot ; 
Elberich  dem  viel  Meinen 
War  zu  der  magte  not. 

Her  hair  was  beautifully  girt 

With  noble  silk  (band)  fine; 

She  let  it  flow  down, 

The  lovely  maidling. 

She  wore  a  crown  with  jewels, 

It  was  of  gold  so  red : 

For  Elberich  the  very  small 

The  maid  had  need  (to  console  her). 

Da  vornen  in  den  kronen 
Lag  ein  karfunkelstein, 
Der  in  dem  pallast  schonen 
Aecht  als  ein  kertz  erschein, 
Aufjrem  hanpt  das  hare 
War  lauter  und  auch  fein, 
Ks  leuchlet  (dso  klare 
Recht  als  der  sonnen  schein. 


THE  XIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


305 


There  in  front  of  the  crown 
Lay  a  cafbuncle-stone, 
Which  in  the  palace  fair 
Even  as  a  taper  seemed; 
On  her  head  the  hair 
Was  glossy  and  also  fine, 
It  shone  as  bright 
Even  as  the-  sun's  sheen. 

Die  magi  die  stand  alleine, 
Gar  irawrig  war  jr  mut ; 
lhrfarb  und  die  war  reine, 
Lieblich-we  milch  und  blut : 
Her  durchjr  zopffe  reinen 
Schienjr  hah  ah  der  schnee  : 
Elberich  dem  viel  kleinen 
Thai  der  mayet  jammer  weh. 

The  maid  she  stood  alone, 

Eight  sad  was  her  mind; 

Her  colour  it  was  pure, 

Lovely  as  milk  and  blood : 

Out  through  her  pure  locks 

Shone  her  neck  like  the  snow. 

Elberich  the  very  small 

Was  touched  with  the  maiden's  sorrow. 

Happy  man  was  Kaiser  Ottnit,  blessed  with  sucli  a  wife, 
after  all  his  travail ;  —  had  not  the  Turk  Machabol  cunningly 
sent  him,  in  revenge,  a  box  of  young  Dragons,  or  Dragon- 
eggs,  by  the  hands  of  a  caitiff  Infidel,  contriver  of  the  mis- 
chief ;  by  whom  in  due  course  of  time  they  were  hatched  and 
nursed,  to  the  infinite  woe  of  all  Lampartei,  and  ultimately 
to  the  death  of  Kaiser  Ottnit  himself,  whom  they  swallowed 
and  attempted  to  digest,  once  without  effect,  but  the  next 
time  too  fatally,  crown  and  all ! 

4  Part  Second  announceth  (meldet)  of  Herr  Hugdietrich 
'  and  his  son  Wolfdietrich ;  how  they  for  justice-sake,  oft  by 
'  their  doughty  acts  succoured  distressed  persons,  with  other 
'  bold  heroes  that  stood  by  them  in  extremity.' 

Concerning  which  Hugdietrich,  Emperor  of  Greece,  and 
his  son  Wolfdietrich,  one  day  the  renowned  Dietrich  of  Bern, 

VOL.  II.  20 


306 


MISCELLANIES. 


we  can  here  say  little  more  than  that  the  former  trained 
himself  to  sempstress-work ;  and  for  many  weeks  plied  his 
needle,  before  he  could  get  wedded  and  produce  Wolfdie- 
trich  ;  who  coming  into  the  world  in  this  clandestine  manner, 
was  let  down  into  the  castle-ditch,  and  like  Romulus  and 
Remus  nursed  by  a  Wolf,  whence  his  name.  However,  after 
never-imagined  adventures,  with  enchanters  and  enchant- 
resses, pagans  and  giants,  in  all  quarters  of  the  globe,  he 
finally,  with  utmost  effort,  slaughtered  those  Lombardy  Drag- 
ons ;  then  married  Kaiser  Ottnit's  widow,  whom  he  had 
rather  flirted  with  before  ;  and  so  lived  universally  respected 
in  his  new  empire,  performing  yet  other  notable  achieve- 
ments. One  strange  property  he  had,  sometimes  useful  to 
him,  sometimes  hurtful:  that  his  breath,  when  he  became 
angry,  grew  flame,  red-hot,  and  would  take  the  temper  out 
of  swords.  We  find  him  again  in  the  Nibelungen,  among 
King  Etzel's  (Attila's)  followers  ;  a  staid,  cautious,  yet  still 
invincible  man ;  on  which  occasion,  though  with  great  reluc- 
tance, he  is  forced  to  interfere,  and  does  so  with  effect. 
Dietrich  is  the  favourite  hero  of  all  those  Southern  Fictions, 
and  well  acknowledged  in  the  Northern  also,  where  the  chief 
man,  however,  as  we  shall  find,  is  not  he  but  Siegfried. 

'  Part  Third  showeth  of  the  Rose-garden  at  Worms, 
'  which  was  planted  by  Chrimhilte,  King  Gibich's  daughter ; 
'  whereby  afterwards  most  part  of  those  Heroes  and  Giants 
k  came  to  destruction  and  were  slain.' 

In  this  Third  Part  the  Southern  or  Lombard  Heroes  come 
into  contact  and  collision  with  another  as  notable  Northern 
class,  and  for  us  much  more  important.  Chriemhild,  whose 
ulterior  history  makes  such  a  figure  in  the  Nibelungen,  had, 
it  would  seem,  near  the  ancient  City  of  Worms,  a  Rose-gar- 
den, some  seven  English  miles  in  circuit ;  fenced  only  by  a 
silk  thread ;  wherein,  however,  she  maintained  Twelve  stout 
fighting  men  ;  several  of*  whom,  as  Hagen,  Volker,  her  three 
Brothers,  above  all  (lie  gallant  Siegfried  her  betrothed,  we 
shall  meet  with  again  :  these,  so  unspeakable  was  their  prow- 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


307 


ess,  sufficed  to  defend  the  silk-thread  Garden  against  all 
mortals.  Our  good  antiquary,  Von  der  Hagen,  imagines  that 
this  Rose-garden  business  (in  the  primeval  Tradition)  glances 
obliquely  at  the  Ecliptic  with  its  Twelve  Signs,  at  Jupiter's 
fight  with  the  Titans,  and  we  know  not  what  confused  skir- 
mishing in  the  Utgard,-or  Asgard,  or  Midgard  of  the  Scan- 
dinavians. Be  this  as  it  may,  Ch'riemhild,  we  are  here  told, 
being  very  beautiful,  and  very  wilful,  boasts,  in  the  pride  of 
her  heart,  that  no  heroes  on  earth  are  to  be  compared  with 
hers ;  and  hearing  accidentally  that  Dietrich  of  Bern  has  a 
high  character  in  this  line,  forthwith  challenges  him  to  visit 
Worms,  and  with  eleven  picked  men  to  do  battle  there 
against  those  other  Twelve  champions  of  Christendom  that 
watch  her  Rose-garden.  Dietrich,  in  a  towering  passion  at 
the  style  of  the  message,  which  was  '  surly  and  stout,'  in- 
stantly pitches  upon  his  eleven  seconds,  who  also  are  to  be 
principals ;  and  with  a  retinue  of  other  sixty  thousand,  by 
quick  stages,  in  which  obstacles  enough  are  overcome,  reaches 
Worms,  and  declares  himself  ready.  Among  these  eleven 
Lombard  heroes  of  his  are  likewise  several  whom  we  meet 
with  again  in  the  Nibelungen ;  beside  Dietrich  himself,  we 
have  the  old  Duke  Hildebrand,  Wolfhart,  Ortwin.  Notable 
among  them,  in  another  way,  is  Monk  Ilsan,  a  truculent, 
gray-bearded  fellow,  equal  to  any  Friar  Tuck  in  Robin 
Hood. 

The  conditions  of  fight  are  soon  agreed  on :  there  are  to 
be  twelve  successive  duels,  each  challenger  being  expected 
to  find  his  match ;  and  the  prize  of  victory  is  a  Rose-gar- 
land from  Chriemhild,  and  ein  Helssen  und  ein  Kiissen,  that  is 
to  say  virtually,  one  kiss  from  her  fair  lips  to  each.  But 
here  as  it  ever  should  do,  Pride  gets  a  fall ;  for  Chriemhild's 
bully-hectors  are,  in  divers  ways,  all  successively  felled  to 
the  ground  by  the  Berners  ;  some  of  whom,  as  old  Hilde- 
brand, will  not  even  take  her  Kiss  when  it  is  due :  even 
Siegfried  himself,  most  reluctantly  engaged  with  by  Dietrich, 
and  for  a  while  victorious,  is  at  last  forced  to  seek  shelter  in 


308 


MISCELLANIES. 


her  lap.  Nay,  Monk  Ilsan,  after  the  regular  fight  is  over, 
and  his  part  in  it  well  performed,  calls  out  in  succession, 
fifty-two  other  idle  Champions  of  the  Garden,  part  of  them 
Giants,  and  routs  the  whole  fraternity ;  thereby  earning,  be- 
sides his  own  regular  allowance,  fifty-two  spare  Garlands,  and 
fifty-two  several  Kisses  ;  in  the  course  of  which  latter,  Chriem- 
hild's  cheek,  a  just  punishment  as  seemed,  was  scratched  to 
the  drawing  of  blood  by  his  rough  beard.  It  only  remains 
to  be  added,  that  King  Gibich,  Chriemhild's  Father,  is  now 
fain  to  do  homage  for  his  kingdom  to  Dietrich ;  who  returns 
triumphant  to  his  own  country ;  where  also,  Monk  Ilsan, 
according  to  promise,  distributes  these  fifty-two  Garlands 
among  his  fellow  Friars,  crushing  a  garland  on  the  bare 
crown  of  each,  till  '  the  red  blood  ran  over  their  ears.'  Under 
which  hard,  but  not  undeserved  treatment,  they  all  agreed  to 
pray  for  remission  of  Ilsan's  sins  :  indeed,  such  as  continued 
refractory  he  tied  together  by  the  beards,  and  hung  pair-wise 
over  poles  ;  whereby  the  stoutest  soon  gave  in. 

So  endeth  here  this  ditty 
Of  strife  from  woman's  pride: 
God  on  our  griefs  take  pity, 
And  Mary  still  by  us  abide. 

'  In  Part  Fourth  is  announced  (gemdt)  of  the  little  King 
'  Laurin,  the  Dwarf,  how  he  encompassed  his  Rose-garden 
4  with  so  great  manhood  and  art-magic,  till  at  last  he  was 
'  vanquished  by  the  heroes,  and  forced  to  become  their  Jug- 
'  gler,  with  &c.  &c.' 

Of  which  Fourth  and  happily  last  part  we  shall  here  say 
nothing ;  inasmuch  as,  except  that  certain  of  our  old  heroes 
again  figure  there,  it  has  no  coherence  or  connexion  with  the 
rest  of  the  Heldenbuch  ;  and  is  simply  a  new  tale,  which  by 
way  of  episode  Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen,  as  we  learn  from 
his  own  words,  had  subset juently  appended  thereto.    He  says: 

Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen 

This  story  hath  been  singing, 

To  the  joy  of  Princes  bold, 

They  gave  him  silver  and  gold, 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


309 


Moreover  pennies  and  garments  rich : 
Here  eucleth  this  Book  the  which 
Doth  sing  our  noble  Heroes'  story : 
God  help  us  all  to  heavenly  glory. 

Such  is  some  outline  of  the  famous  Heldenbuch  ;  on  which 
it  is  not  our  business  .here  to  add  any  criticism.  The  fact 
that  it  has  so  long  been  popular  betokens  a  certain  worth 
in  it ;  the  kind  and  degree  of  which  is  also  in  some  meas- 
ure apparent.  In  poetry  '  the  rude  man,'  it  has  been  said, 
'  requires  only  to  see  something  going  on  ;  the  man  of  more 
'  refinement  wishes  to  feel ;  the  truly  refined  man  must  be 
'  made  to  reflect.'  For  the  first  of  these  classes  our  Hero- 
book,  as  has  been  apparent  enough,  provides  in  abundance  ; 
for  the  other  two  scantily,  indeed  for  the  second  not  at  all. 
Nevertheless  our  estimate  of  this  work,  which  as  a  series  of 
Antique  Traditions  may  have  considerable  meaning,  is  apt 
rather  to  be  too  low.  Let  us  remember  that  this  is  not  the 
original  Heldenbuch  which  we  now  see ;  but  only  a  version 
of  it  into  the  Knight-errant  dialect  of  the  thirteenth,  indeed 
partly  of  the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth  centuries,  with  all  the 
fantastic  monstrosities,  now  so  trivial,  pertaining  to  that 
style ;  under  which  disguises  the  really  antique  earnest 
groundwork,  interesting  as  old  Thought,  if  not  as  old  Poetry, 
is  all  but  quite  obscured  from  us.  But  Antiquarian  diligence 
is  now  busy  with  the  Heldenbuch  also,  from  which  what 
light  is  in  it  will  doubtless  be  elicited,  and  here  and  there  a 
deformity  removed.  Though  the  Ethiop  cannot  change  his 
skin,  there  is  no  need  that  even  he  should  go  abroad  un- 
washed.1 

Casper  von  Roen,  or  whoever  was  the  ultimate  redactor 

1  Our  inconsiderable  knowledge  of  the  Heldenbuch  is  derived  from  vari- 
ous secondary  sources:  chiefly  from  Lessing's  Werhe  (b.  xiii.),  where  the 
reader  will  find  an  epitome  of  the  whole  Poem,  with  Extracts  by  Herr 
Eulleborn,  from  which  the  above  are  taken.  A  still  more  accessible 
and  larger  Abstract,  with  long  specimens  translated  into  verse,  stands  in 
the  Illustrations  of  Northern  Antiquities  (pp.  45-167).  Von  der  Hagen  has 
since  been  employed  specially  on  the  Heldenbuch;  with  what  result  we 
have  not  yet  learned. 


310 


MISCELLANIES. 


of  the  Heldenbuch,  whom  Lessing  designates  as  '  a  highly 
ill-informed  man,'  would  have  done  better  had  he  quite 
omitted  that  little  King  Laurin,  '  and  his  little  Rose-garden,' 
which  properly  is  no  Rose-garden  at  all ;  and  instead 
thereof  introduced  the  Gehomte  Siegfried  (Behorned  Sieg- 
fried), whose  history  lies  at  the  heart  of  the  whole  Northern 
Traditions  ;  and,  under  a  rude  prose  dress,  is  to  this  day  a 
real  child's-book  and  people's-book  among  the  Germans.  Of 
this  Siegfried  we  have  already  seen  somewhat  in  the  Rose- 
garden  at  Worms  ;  and  shall  erelong  see  much  more  else- 
where ;  for  he  is  the  chief  hero  of  the  Nibelungen :  indeed 
nowhere  can  we  dip  into  those  old  Fictions,  whether  in 
Scandinavia  or  the  Rhine-land,  but  under  one  figure  or 
another,  whether  as  Dragon-killer  and  Prince-royal,  or  as 
Blacksmith  and  Horse-subduer,  as  Sigurd,  Sivrit,  Siegfried, 
we  are  sure  to  light  on  him.  As  his  early  adventures  be- 
long to  the  strange  sort,  and  will  afterwards  concern  us  not 
a  little,  we  shall  here  endeavour  to  piece  together  some  con- 
sistent outline  of  them ;  so  far  indeed  as  that  may  be  possi- 
ble ;  for  his  biographers,  agreeing  in  the  main  points,  differ 
widely  in  the  details. 

First,  then,  let  no  one  from  the  title  Gehomte  (Horned, 
Behorned),  fancy  that  our  brave  Siegfried,  who  was  the 
loveliest  as  well  as  the  bravest  of  men,  was  actually  cor- 
nuted,  and  had  horns  on  his  brow,  though  like  Michael 
Angelo's  Moses  ;  or  even  that  his  skin,  to  which  the  epithet 
Behorned  refers,  was  hard  like  a  crocodile's,  and  not  softer 
than  the  softest  shamoy :  for  the  truth  is,  his  Hornedness 
means  only  an  Invulnerability,  like  that  of  Achilles,  which 
he  came  by  in  the  following  manner.  All  men  agree  that 
Siegfried  was  a  king's  son ;  he  was  born,  as  we  here  have 
good  reason  to  know,  '  at  Santen  in  Netherland,'  of  Siege- 
mund  and  the  fair  Siegelinde ;  yet  by  some  family  misfor- 
tune or  discord,  of  which  the  accounts  are  very  various,  he 
came  into  singular  straits  during  boyhood;  having  passed 
that  happy  period  of  life,  not  under  the  canopies  of  costly 


THE  NIBELUXGEN  LIED. 


311 


state,  but  by  the  sooty  stithy,  in  one  Mimer  a  Blacksmith's 
shop.  Here,  however,  he  was  nowise  in  his  proper 'element ; 
ever  quarrelling  with  his  fellow-apprentices  ;  nay,  as  some 
say,  breaking  the  hardest  anvils  into  shivers  by  his  too  stout 
hammering.  So  that  Mimer,  otherwise  a  first-rate  Smith, 
could  by  no  means  do. with  him  there.  He  sends  him,  ac- 
cordingly, to  the  neighbouring  forest,  to  fetch  charcoal ;  well 
aware  that  a  monstrous  Dragon,  one  Regin,  the  Smith's  own 
Brother,  would  meet  him  and  devour  him.  But  for  other- 
wise it  proved ;  Siegfried  by  main  force  slew  this  Dragon, 
or  rather  Dragonised  Smith's-Brother  ;  made  broth  of  him ; 
and,  warned  by  some  significant  phenomena,  bathed  therein  ; 
or,  as  others  assert,  bathed  directly  in  the  monster's  blood, 
without  cookery  ;  and  hereby  attained  that  Invulnerability, 
complete  in  all  respects,  save  that  between  his  shoulders, 
where  a  lime-tree  leaf  chanced  to  settle  and  stick  during  the 
process,  there  was  one  little  spot,  a  fatal .  spot  as  afterwards 
turned  out,  left  in  its  natural  state. 

Siegfried,  now  seeing  through  the  craft  of  the  Smith,  re- 
turned home  and  slew  him ;  then  set  forth  in  search  of  ad- 
ventures, the  bare  catalogue  of  which  were  long  to  recite. 
We  mention  only  two,  as  subsequently  of  moment  both  for 
him  and  for  us.  He  is  by  some  said  to  have  courted,  and 
then  jilted,  the  fair  and  proud  Queen  Brunhild  of  Isenland  ; 
nay  to  have  thrown  down  the  seven  gates  of  her  Castle ; 
and  then  ridden  off  with  her  wild-horse  Gana,  having 
mounted  him  in  the  meadow,  and  instantly  broken  him. 
Some  cross  passages  between  him  and  Queen  Brunhild,  who 
understood  no  jesting,  there  must  clearly  have  been,  so  angry 
is  her  recognition  of  him  in  the  Nibelungen  ;  nay,  she  bears 
a  lasting  grudge  against  him  there ;  as  he,  and  indeed  she 
also,  one  day  too  sorely  felt. 

His  other  grand  adventure  is  with  the  two  sons  of  the 
deceased  King  Nibelung,  in  Nibelungen-land :  these  two 
youths,  to  whom  their  father  had  bequeathed  a  Hoard  or 
Treasure  beyond  all  price  or  computation,  Siegfried,  '  riding 


312 


MISCELLANIES. 


by  alone,'  found  on  the  side  of  a  mountain,  in  a  state  of  great 
perplexity.  They  had  brought  out  the  Treasure  from  the 
cave  where  it  usually  lay  ;  but  how  to  part  it  was  the  diffi- 
culty ;  for,  not  to  speak  of  gold,  there  were  as  many  jewels 
alone  '  as  twelve  wagons  in  four  days  and  nights,  each  going 
'  three  journeys,  could  carry  away  ; '  nay,  '  however  much 
'  you  took  from  it  there  was  no  diminution  : '  besides  in  real 
property,  a  Sword,  Balmung,  of  great  potency  ;  a  Divining- 
rod,  '  which  gave  power  over  every  one  ; '  and  a  Tarnhappe 
(or  Cloak  of  Darkness),  which  not  only  rendered  the  wearer 
invisible,  but  also  gave  him  twelve  men's  strength.  So  that 
the  two  Princes  Royal,  without  counsel  save  from  their 
Twelve  stupid  Giants,  knew  not  how  to  fall  upon  any 
amicable  arrangement ;  and,  seeing  Siegfried  ride  by  so 
opportunely,  requested  him  to  be  arbiter ;  offering  also  the 
Sword  Balmung  for  his  trouble.  Siegfried,  who  readily 
undertook  the  impossible  problem,  did  his  best  to  accom- 
plish it ;  but,  of  course,  without  effect ;  nay  the  two  Nibe- 
lungen  Princes,  being  of  choleric  temper,  grew  impatient, 
and  provoked  him  ;  whereupon,  with  the  Sword  Balmung 
he  slew  them  both,  and  their  Twelve  Giants  (perhaps  origi- 
nally Signs  of  the  Zodiac)  to  boot.  Thus  did  the  famous 
Nibelungen  Hort  (Hoard),  and  indeed  the  whole  Nibelungen- 
land,  come  into  his  possession  :  wearing  the  Sword  Balmung, 
and  having  slain  the  two  Princes  and  their  Champions,  what 
was  there  farther  to  oppose  him  ?  Vainly  did  the  Dwarf 
Alberich,  our  old  friend  Elberich  of  the  Heldenbueh,  who  had 
now  become  special  keeper  of  this  Hoard,  attempt  some  re- 
sistance with  a  Dwarf  Army;  he  was  driven  back  into  the 
cave ;  plundered  of  his  Tarnkappe ;  and  obliged  with  all  his 
myrmidons  to  swear  fealty  to  the  conqueror,  whom  indeed 
thenceforth  he  and  they  punctually  obeyed. 

Whereby  Siegfried  might  now  farther  style  himself  King 
of  the  Nibelungen  ;  master  of  the  infinite  Nibelungen  Hoard 
(collected  doubtless  by  art-magic  in  the  beginning  of  Time, 
in  the  deep  bowels  of  the  Universe),  with  the  Wunschelruthe 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


313 


(Wishing  or  Divining,  Rod)  pertaining  thereto  ;  owner  of  the 
Tarnkappe,  which  he  ever  after  kept  by  him,  to  put  on  at 
will ;  and  though  last  not  least,  Bearer  and  Wielder  of  the 
Sword  Balmung,1  by  the  keen  edge  of  which  all  this  gain 
had  come  to  him.  To  which  last  acquisitions  adding  his 
previously  acquired  Invulnerability,  and  his  natural  dignities 
as  Prince  of  Netherland,  he  might  well  show  himself  before 
the  foremost  at  Worms  or  elsewhere ;  and  attempt  any  the 
highest  adventure  that  fortune  could  cut  out  for  him.  How- 
ever, his  subsequent  history  belongs  all  to  the  Nioelungen 
Song ;  at  which  fair  garden  of  poesy  we  are  now,  through 
all  these  shaggy  wildernesses  and  enchanted  woods,  finally 
arrived. 

1  By  this  Sword  Balmung  also  hangs  a  tale.  Doubtless  it  was  one  of 
those  invaluable  weapons  sometimes  fabricated  by  the  old  Northern 
Smiths,  compared  with  which  our  modern  Foxes,  and  Ferraras,  and 
Toledos,  are  mere  leaden  tools.  Von  der  Hagen  seems  to  think  it  simply 
the  Sword  Mimung  under  another  name;  in  which  case  Siegfried's  old 
master,  Mimer,  had  been  the  maker  of  it,  and  called  it  after  himself,  as  if 
it  had  been  his  son.  In  Scandinavian  chronicles,  veridical  or  not,  we 
have  the  following  account  of  that  transaction.  Mimer  (or,  as  some  have 
it,  surely  without  ground,  one  Velint,  once  an  apprentice  of  his)  was 
challenged  by  another  Craftsman,  named  Amilias,  who  boasted  that  he 
had  made  a  suit  of  armour  which  no  stroke  could  dint,  —  to  equal  thaf 
feat,  or  own  himself  the  second  Smith  then  extant.  This  last  the  stout 
Mimer  would  in  no  case  do,  but  proceeded  to  forge  the  Sword  Mimung; 
with  which,  when  it  was  finished,  he,  '  in  presence  of  the  King,'  cut 
asunder  '  a  thread  of  wool  floating  on  water.'  This  would  have  seemed 
a  fair  fire-edge  to  most  smiths:  not  so  to  Mimer;  he  sawed  the  blade  in 
pieces,  welded  it  in  '  a  red-hot  fire  for  three  days,'  tempered  it  '  with 
milk  and  oatmeal,'  and  by  much  other  cunning,  brought  out  a  sword  that 
severed  '  a  ball  of  wool  floating  on  water.'  But  neither  would  this  suffice 
him;  he  returned  to  his  smithy,  and  by  means  known  only  to  himself, 
produced,  in  the  course  of  seven  weeks,  a  third  and  final  edition  of  Mi- 
mung, which  split  asunder  a  whole  floating  pack  of  wool.  The  com- 
parative trial  now  took  place  forthwith.  Amilias,  cased  in  his  im- 
penetrable coat  of  mail,  sat  down  on  a  bench,  in  presence  of  assembled 
thousands,  and  bade  Mimer  strike  him.  Mimer  fetched  of  course  his  best 
blow,  on  which  Amilias  observed,  that  there  was  a  strange  feeling  of  cold 
iron  in  his  inwards.  "  Shake  thyself,"  said  Mimer;  the  luckless  wight 
did  so,  and  fell  in  two  halves,  being  cleft  sheer  through  from  collar  to 
haunch,  never  more  to  swing  hammer  in  this  world.  —  See  Illustrations  of 
Northern  Antiquities,  p.  31. 


314 


MISCELLANIES. 


Apart  from  its  antiquarian  value,  and  not  only  as  by  far 
the  finest  monument  of  old  German  art ;  but  intrinsically, 
and  as  a  mere  detached  composition,  this  Nibelungen  has  an 
excellence  that  cannot  but  surprise  us.  With  little  prepara- 
tion, any  reader  of  poetry,  even  in  these  days,  migbt  find  it 
interesting.  It  is  not  without  a  certain  Unity  of  interest  and 
purport,  and  internal  coherence  and  completeness  ;  it  is  a 
Whole,  and  some  spirit  of  Music  informs  it :  these  are  the 
highest  characteristics  of  a  true  Poem.  Considering  farther 
what  intellectual  environment  we  now  find  it  in,  it  is  doubly 
to  be  prized  and  wondered  at ;  for  it  differs  from  those  Hero- 
boohs,  as  molten  or  carved  metal  does  from  rude  agglomerated 
ore ;  almost  as  some  Shakspeare  from  his  fellow  Dramatists, 
whose  Tamburlaines  and  Island  Princesses,  themselves  not 
destitute  of  merit,  first  show  us  clearly  in  what  pure  loftiness 
and  loneliness  the  Hamlets  and  Tempests  reign. 

The  unknown  Singer  of  the  Nibelungen,  though  no  Shak- 
speare, must  have  had  a  deep  poetic  soul  ;  wherein  things 
discontinuous  and  inanimate  shaped  themselves  together  into 
life,  and  the  Universe  with  its  wondrous  purport  stood  signif- 
icantly imaged ;  overarching  as  with  heavenly  firmaments 
and  eternal  harmonies,  the  little  scene  where  men  strut  and 
fret  their  hour.  His  Poem,  unlike  so  many  old  and  new  pre- 
tenders to  that  name,  has  a  basis  and  organic  structure,  a  be- 
ginning, middle  and  end  ;  there  is  one  great  principle  and 
idea  set  forth  in  it,  round  which  all  its  multifarious  parts  com- 
bine in  living  union.  Remarkable  it  is,  moreover,  how  along 
with  this  essence  and  primary  condition  of  all  poetic  virtue, 
the  minor  external  virtues  of  what  we  call  Taste  and  so  forth, 
are,  as  it  were,  presupposed  ;  and  the  living  soul  of  Poetry 
being  there,  its  body  of  incidents,  its  garment  of  language, 
come  of  their  own  accord.  So  too  in  the  case  of  Shakspeare: 
his  feeling  of  propriety,  as  compared  with  that  of  the  Mar- 
lowes  and  Fletchers,  his  quick  sure  sense  of  what  is  fit  and 
unfit,  either  in  act  or  word,  might  astonish  us,  had  he  no 
other  superiority.    But  true  Inspiration,  as  it  may  well  do. 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


315 


includes  that  same  Ta^te,  or  rather  a  far  higher  and  heartfelt 
Taste,  of  which  that  other  '  elegant '  species  is  hut  an  in- 
effectual, irrational  apery  :  let  us  see  the  herald  Mercury 
actually  descend  from  his  Heaven,  and  the  bright  wings,  and 
the  graceful  movement  of  these,  will  not  be  wanting. 

With  an  instinctive  art,  far  different  from  acquired  artifice, 
this  Poet  of  the  Nibelungen,  working  in  the  same  province 
with  his  contemporaries  of  the  Heldenbuch,  on  the  same  ma- 
terial of  tradition,  has,  in  a  wonderful  degree,  possessed  him- 
self of  what  these  could  only  strive  after  ;  and  with  his  '  clear 
feeling  of  fictitious  truth,'  avoided  as  false  the  errors  and 
monstrous  perplexities  in  which  they  vainly  struggled.  He 
is  of  another  species  than  they;  in  language,  in  purity  and 
depth  of  feeling,  in  fineness  of  invention,  stands  guite  apart 
from  them. 

The  language  of  the  Heldenbuch,  as  we  saw  above,  was  a 
feeble  half-articulate  child's-speech,  the  metre  nothing  better 
than  a  miserable  doggerel ;  whereas  here  in  the  old  Frankish 
(  Oberdeutsch)  dialect  of  the  Nibelungen,  we  have  a  clear  de- 
cisive utterance,  and  in  a  real  system  of  verse,  not  without 
essential  regularity,  great  liveliness,  and  now  and  then  even 
harmony  of  rhythm.  Doubtless  we  must  often  call  it  a  dif- 
fuse diluted  utterance  ;  at  the  same  time  it  is  genuine,  with 
a  certain  antique  garrulous  heartiness,  and  has  a  rhythm  in 
the  thoughts  as  well  as  the  words.  The  simplicity  is  never 
silly  ;  even  in  that  perpetual  recurrence  of  epithets,  some- 
times of  rhymes,  as  where  two  words,  for  instance  lip  (body, 
life,  leib)  and  wip  (woman,  wife,  weib)  are  indissolubly  wed- 
ded together,  and  the  one  never  shows  itself  without  the 
other  following,  —  there  is  something  which  reminds  us  not 
so  much  of  poverty,  as  of  trustfulness  and  childlike  inno- 
cence. Indeed  a  strange  charm  lies  in  those  old  tones,  where, 
in  gay  dancing  melodies,  the  sternest  tidings  are  sung  to  us ; 
and  deep  floods  of  Sadness  and  Strife  play  lightly  in  little 
curling  billows,  like  seas  in  summer.  It  is  as  a  meek  smile, 
in  whose  still,  thoughtful  depths  a  whole  infinitude  of  patience. 


316 


MISCELLANIES. 


and  love,  and  heroic  strength  lie  revealed.  But  in  other 
cases  too,  we  have  seen  this  outward  sport  and  inward 
earnestness  offer  grateful  contrast,  and  cunning  excitement ; 
for  example,  in  Tasso  ;  of  whom,  though  otherwise  different 
enough,  this  old  Northern  Singer  has  more  than  once  re- 
minded us.  There  too,  as  here,  we  have  a  dark  solemn 
meaning  in  light  guise  ;  deeds  of  high  temper,  harsh  self- 
denial,  daring  and  death,  stand  embodied  in  that  soft,  quick- 
flowing,  joyfully-modulated  verse.  Nay  farther,  as  if  the 
implement,  much  more  than  we  might  fancy,  had  influenced 
the  work  done,  these  two  Poems,  could  we  trust  our  indi- 
vidual feeling,  have  in  one  respect  the  same  poetical  result 
for  us :  in  the  Nibelungen  as  in  the  Gerusalemme,  the  persons 
and  their  story  are  indeed  brought  vividly  before  us,  yet  not 
near  and  palpably  present ;  it  is  rather  as  if  we  looked  on 
that  scene  through  an  inverted  telescope,  whereby  the  whole 
was  carried  far  away  into  the  distance,  the  life-large  figures 
compressed  into  brilliant  miniatures,  so  clear,  so  real,  yet 
tiny,  elf-like  and  beautified  as  well  as  lessened,  their  colours 
being  now  closer  and  brighter,  the  shadows  and  trivial  fea- 
tures no  longer  visible.  This,  as  we  partly  apprehend,  conies 
of  singing  Epic  Poems ;  most  part  of  which  only  pretend  to 
be  sung.  Tasso's  rich  melody  still  lives  among  the  Italian 
people ;  the  Nibelungen  also  is  what  it  professes  to  be,  a 
Song. 

No  less  striking  than  the  verse  and  language  is  the  quality 
of  the  invention  manifested  here.  Of  the  Fable,  or  narra- 
tive material  of  the  Nibelungen,  we  should  say  that  it  had 
high,  almost  the  highest  merit;  so  daintily  yet  firmly  is  it 
put  together  ;  with  such  felicitous  selection  of  the  beautiful, 
the  essential,  and  no  less  felicitous  rejection  of  whatever  was 
unbeautiful  or  even  extraneous.  The  reader  is  no  longer 
afflicted  with  that  chaotic  brpod  of  Fire-drakes,  Giants,  and 
malicious  turbaned  Turks,  so  fatally  rife  in  the  Heldenbuch  : 
all  this  is  swept  away,  or  only  hovers  in  faint  shadows  afar 
off ;  and  free  field  is  open  for  legitimate  perennial  interests. 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


317 


Yet  neither  is  the  Nibelungen  without  its  wonders ;  for  it  is 
poetry  and  not  prose ;  here  too,  a  supernatural  world  encom- 
passes the  natural,  and,  though  at  rare  intervals  and  in  calm 
manner,  reveals  itself  there.  It  is  truly  wonderful  with  what 
skill  our  simple  untaught  Poet  deals  with  the  marvellous  ; 
admitting  it  without  reluctance  or  criticism,  yet  precisely  in 
the  degree  and  shape  that  will  best  avail  him.  Here,  if  in 
no  other  respect,  we  should  say,  that  he  has  a  decided  superi- 
ority to  Homer  himself.  The  whole  story  of  the  Nibelungen 
is  fateful,  mysterious,  guided  on  by  unseen  influences ;  yet 
the  actual  marvels  are  few,  and  done  in  the  far  distance ; 
those  Dwarfs,  and  Cloaks  of  Darkness,  and  charmed  Treas- 
ure-caves, are  heard  of  rather  than  beheld,  the  tidings  of 
them  seem  to  issue  from  unknown  space.  Vain  were  it  to 
inquire  where  that  Nibelungen-land  specially  is :  its  very 
name  is  Nebel-land  or  Nifl-land,  the  land  of  Darkness,  of 
Invisibility.  The  '  Nibelungen  Heroes '  that  muster  in  thou- 
sands and  tens  of  thousands,  though  they  march  to  the  Rhine 
or  Danube,  and  we  see  their  strong  limbs  and  shining  armour, 
we  could  almost  fancy  to  be  children  of  the  air.  Far  beyond 
the  firm  horizon,  that  wonder-bearing  region  swims  on  the  in- 
finite waters  ;  unseen  by  bodily  eye,  or  at  most  discerned  as 
a  faint  streak,  hanging  in  the  blue  depths,  uncertain  whether 
island  or  cloud.  And  thus  the  Nibelungen  Song,  though 
based  on  the  bottomless  foundations  of  Spirit,  and  not  un- 
visited  of  skyey  messengers,  is  a  real,  rounded,  habitable 
Earth,  where  we  find  firm  footing,  and  the  wondrous  and  the 
common  live  amicably  together.  Perhaps  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  find  any  Poet  of  ancient  or  modern  times,  who  in  this 
trying  problem  has  steered  his  way  with  greater  delicacy  and 
success. 

To  any  of  our  readers  who  may  have  personally  studied 
the  Nibelungen,  these  high  praises  of  ours  will  not  seem 
exaggerated :  the  rest,  who  are  the  vast  majority,  must  en- 
deavour to  accept  them  with  some  degree  of  faith,  at  least  of 
curiosity  ;  to  vindicate,  and  judicially  substantiate  them  would 


318 


MISCELLANIES. 


far  exceed  our  present  opportunities.  Nay  in  any  case,  the 
criticism,  the  alleged  Characteristics  of  a  Poem  are  so  many 
Theorems,  which  are  indeed  enunciated,  truly  or  falsely,  but 
the  Demonstration  of  which  must  be  sought  for  in  the 
reader's  own  study  and  experience.  Nearly  all  that  can  be 
attempted  here,  is  some  hasty  epitome  of  the  mere  Narrative  ; 
no  substantial  image  of  the  work,  but  a  feeble  outline  and 
shadow.  To  which  task,  as  the  personages  and  their  en- 
vironment have  already  been  in  some  degree  illustrated,  we 
can  now  proceed  without  obstacle. 

The  Nibelungen  has  been  called  the  Northern  Epos ;  yet 
it  has,  in  great  part,  a  Dramatic  character  :  those  thirty-nine 
Aventiuren  (Adventures),  which  it  consists  of,  might  be  so 
many  scenes  in  a  Tragedy.  The  catastrophe  is  dimly  proph- 
esied from  the  beginning ;  and,  at  every  fresh  step,  rises 
more  and  more  clearly  into  view.  A  shadow  of  coming  Fate, 
as  it  were,  a  low  inarticulate  voice  of  Doom  falls,  from  the 
first,  out  of  that  charmed  Nibelungen-land  :  the  discord  of 
two  women  is  as  a  little  spark  of  evil  passion,  which  erelong 
enlarges  itself  into  a  crime ;  foul  murder  is  done  ;  and  now 
the  Sin  rolls  on  like  a  devouring  fire,  till  the  guilty  and  the 
innocent  are  alike  encircled  with  it,  and  a  whole  land  is 
ashes,  and  a  whole  race  is  swept  away. 

Uns  ist  in  alien  mceren    Wunders  vil  geseit, 

Von  helden  lobebairen    Von  grozef  chuonheit ; 

Von  vrouden  und  hoch-geziten,    Von  weinen  und  von  chlagen, 

Von  chuner  rechen  striten,    Muget  vr  nu  wunder  horen  sagen. 

We  find  in  ancient  story    Wonders  many  told, 
Of  heroes  in  great  glory    With  spirit  free  and  bold; 
Of  joyances  and  high-tides,    Of  weeping  and  of  woe, 
Of  noble  Recken  striving,    Mote  ye  now  wonders  know. 

This  is  the  brief  artless  Proem  ;  and  the  promise  contained 
in  it  proceeds  directly  towards  fulfilment.  In  the  very  sec- 
ond stanza,  we  learn  : 

Es  wQkt  in  Burgonden  Ein  vil  edel  magedin, 
Das  in  alien  landen    Nild  schemers  mohte  sin  ; 


THE  NIBELUXGEN  LIED. 


319 


Chriemhilt  was  si  geheien,    Si  icart  ein  scheme  wip; 
Darumbe  miisen  degene    Vil  verliesen  den  lip. 

A  right  noble  maiden    Did  grow  in  Burgundy, 
That  in  all  lands  of  earth    Naught  fairer  mote  there  be; 
Chriemhild  of  Worms  she  hight,    She  was  a  fairest  wife ; 
For  the  which  must  warriors    A  many  lose  their  life.1 

Chriemhild,  this  world's-wcmder,  a  king's  daughter  and 
king's  sister,  and  no  less  coy  and  proud  than  fair,  dreams  one 
night  that  '  she  had  petted  a  falcon,  strong,  beautiful  and 
'  wild  ;  which  two  eagles  snatched  away  from  her  :  this  she 
'  was  forced  to  see  ;  greater  sorrow  felt  she  never  in  the 
4  world.'  Her  mother,  Ute,  to  whom  she  relates  the  vision, 
soon  redes  it  for  her  ;  the  falcon  is  a  noble  husband,  whom, 
God  keep  him,  she  must  suddenly  lose.  Chriemhild  declares 
warmly  for  the  single  state ;  as,  indeed,  living  there  at  the 
Court  of  Worms,  with  her  brothers,  Gunther,  Gemot,  Gei- 
selher,  '  three  kings  noble  and  rich,'  in  such  pomp  and  re- 
nown, the  pride  of  Burgunden-land  and  Earth,  she  might 
readily  enough  have  changed  for  the  worse.  However, 
dame  Ute  bids  her  not  be  too  emphatical ;  for  '  if  ever  she 
'  have  heartfelt  joy  in  life,  it  will  be  from  man's  love,  and  she 
'  shall  be  a  fair  wife  (wip),  when  God  sends  her  a  right 
'  worthy  Ritter's  Up.'  Chriemhild  is  more  in  earnest  than 
maidens  usually  are  when  they  talk  thus  ;  it  appears,  she 
guarded  against  love,  '  for  many  a  lief-long  day  ; '  neverthe- 
less, she  too  must  yield  to  destiny.    '  Honourably  she  was  to 

1  This  is  the  first  of  a  thousand  instances,  in  which  the  two  inseparables, 
imp  and  lip,  or  in  modern  tongue,  loeib  and  leib,  as  mentioned  above,  appear 
together.  From  these  two  opening  stanzas  of  the  Nibelungen  Lied,  in  its 
purest  form,  the  reader  may  obtain  some  idea  of  the  versification;  it  runs 
on  in  more  or  less  regular  Alexandrines,  with  a  caesural  pause  in  each, 
where  the  capital  letter  occurs;  indeed,  the  lines  seem  originally  to  have 
been  divided  into  two  at  that  point,  for  sometimes,  as  in  Stanza  First,  the 
middle  words  (moeren,  lobebceren ;  geziten,  striten)  also  rhyme;  but  this  is 
rather  a  rare  case.  The  word  rechen  or  recken,  used  in  the  First  Stanza, 
is  the  constant  designation  for  bold  fighters,  and  has  the  same  root  with 
rich  (thus  in  old  French,  homines  riches  ;  in  Spanish,  ricos  hombres),  which 
last  is  here  also  synonymous  with  powerful,  and  is  applied  to  kings,  and 
even  to  the  Almighty,  Got  dem  richen. 


320 


MISCELLANIES. 


become  a  most  noble  Ritter's  wife.'  '  Tbis,'  adds  the  old 
Singer,  '  was  that  same  falcon  she  dreamed  of :  how  sorely 
'  she  since  revenged  him  on  her  nearest  kindred !  For  that 
'  one  death  died  full  many  a  mother's  son.' 

It  may  be  observed,  that  the  Poet  here,  and  at  all  times, 
shows  a  marked  partiality  for  Chriemhild  ;  ever  striving,  un- 
like his  fellow-singers,  to  magnify  her  worth,  her  faithfulness 
and  loveliness  ;  and  softening,  as  much  as  may  be,  whatever 
makes  against  her.  No  less  a  favourite  with  him  is  Sieg- 
fried, the  prompt,  gay,  peaceably  fearless  hero ;  to  whom, 
in  the  Second  Aventiure,  we  are  here  suddenly  introduced, 
at  Santen  (Xanten),  the  Court  of  Netherland  ;  whither,  to 
his  glad  parents,  after  achievements  (to  us  partially  known) 
'  of  which  one  might  sing  and  tell  forever,'  that  noble  prince 
has  returned.  Much  as  he  has  done  and  conquered,  he  is 
but  just  arrived  at  man's  years  :  it  is  on  occasion  of  this  joy- 
ful event,  that  a  high-tide  (hochgezit)  is  now  held  there,  with 
infinite  joustings,  minstrelsy,  largesses  and  other  chivalrous 
doings,  all  which  is  sung  with  utmost  heartiness.  The  old 
King  Siegemund  offers  to  resign  his  crown  to  him  ;  but  Sieg- 
fried has  other  game  a-field :  the  unparalleled  beauty  of 
Chriemhild  has  reached  his  ear  and  his  fancy  ;  and  now  he 
will  to  Worms  and  woo  her,  at  least  '  see  how  it  stands  with 
her.'  Fruitless  is  it  for  Siegemund  and  the  mother  Siege- 
linde  to  represent  the  perils  of  that  enterprise,  the  pride 
of  those  Burgundian  Gunthers  and  Gemots,  the  fierce  tem- 
per of  their  uncle  Hagen  ;  Siegfried  is  as  obstinate  as  young 
men  are  in  these  cases,  and  can  hear  no  counsel.  Nay  he 
will  not  accept  the  much  more  liberal  proposition,  to  take  an 
army  with  him,  and  conquer  the  country,  if  it  must  be  so ; 
he  will  ride  forth,  like  himself,  with  twelve  champions  only, 
and  so  defy  the  future.  Whereupon,  the  old  people,  finding 
that  there  is  no  other  course,  proceed  to  make  him  clothes  ; 1 

1  This  is  a  never-failing  preparative  for  all  expeditions,  and  always 
specified  and  insisted  on  with  a  simple,  loving,  almost  female  inipressive- 
ness. 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


321 


—  at  least,  the  good  jqueen  with  '  her  fair  women  sitting  night 
and  day,'  and  sewing,  does  so,  the  father  furnishing  noblest 
battle  and  riding  gear ;  —  and  so  dismiss  him  with  many 
blessings  and  lamentations.  '  For  him  wept  sore  the  king 
'  and  his'  wife,  but  he  comforted  both  their  bodies  {lip)  ;  he 
'  said,  "  Ye  must  not  .weep,  for  my  body  ever  shall  ye  be 
'  without  care." ' 

Sad  was  it  to  the  Recken,    Stood  weeping  many  a  maid ; 
I  ween  their  heart  had  them    The  tidings  true  foresaid, 
That  of  their  friends  so  many    Death  thereby  should  find; 
Cause  had  they  of  lamenting,    Such  boding  in  their  mind. 

Nevertheless,  on  the  seventh  morning,  that  adventurous  com- 
pany '  ride  up  the  sand,'  on  the  Rhinebeach,  to  Worms ;  in 
high  temper,  in  dress  and  trappings,  aspect  and  bearing  more 
than  kingly. 

Siegfried's  reception  at  King  Gunther's  court,  and  his 
brave  sayings  and  doings  there  for  some  time,  we  must  omit. 
One  fine  trait  of  his  chivalrous  delicacy  it  is  that,  for  a  whole 
year,  he  never  hints  at  his  errand  ;  never  once  sees  or  speaks 
of  Chriemhild,  whom,  nevertheless,  he  is  longing  day  and 
night  to  meet.  She,  on  her  side,  has  often  through  her  lat- 
tices noticed  the  gallant  stranger,  victorious  in  all  tiltings  and 
knightly  exercises  ;  whereby  it  would  seem,  in  spite  of  her 
rigorous  predeterminations,  some  kindness  for  him  is  already 
gliding  in.  Meanwhile,  mighty  wars  and  threats  of  invasion 
arise,  and  Siegfried  does  the  state  good  service.  Returning 
victorious,  both  as  general  and  soldier,  from  Hessen  (Hessia), 
where,  by  help  of  his  own  courage  and  the  sword  Balmung, 
he  has  captured  a  Danish  king,  and  utterly  discomfited  a 
Saxon  one  ;  he  can  now  show  himself  hefore  Chriemhild  with- 
out other  blushes  than  those  of  timid  love.  Nay  the  maiden 
has  herself  inquired  pointedly  of  the  messengers,  touching 
his  exploits ;  and  '  her  fair  face  grew  rose-red  when  she 
heard  them.'  A  gay  High-tide,  by  way  of  triumph,  is 
appointed  ;  several  kings,  and  two-and-thirty  princes,  and 
knights  enough  with  '  gold-red  saddles,'  come  to  joust ;  and 

VOL.  II.  21 


322 


MISCELLANIES. 


better  than  whole  infinities  of  kings  and  princes  with  their 
saddles,  the  fair  Chriemhild  herself,  under  guidance  of  her 
mother,  chiefly  too  in  honour  of  the  victor,  is  to  grace  that 
sport.  'Ute  the  full  rich'  fails  not  to  set  her  needle-women 
to  work,  and  '  clothes  of  price  are  taken  from  their  presses,' 
for  the  love  of  her  child,  '  wherewith  to  deck  many  women 
and  maids.'  And  now,  'on  the  Whitsun-morning,'  all  is 
ready,  and  glorious  as  heart  could  desire  it ;  brave  Ritters, 
'  five  thousand  or  more,'  all  glancing  in  the  lists ;  but  grander 
still,  Chriemhild  herself  is  advancing  beside  her  mother,  with 
a  hundred  body-guards,  all  sword-in-hand,  and  many  a  noble 
maid  '  wearing  rich  raiment,'  in  her  train  ! 

'Now  issued  forth  the  lovely  one  (minnechl.iche),  as  the  red  morning 
doth  from  troubled  clouds ;  much  care  fled  away  from  him  who  bore 
her  in  his  heart,  and  long  had  done  ;  he  saw  the  lovely  one  stand  in 
her  beauty. 

'  There  glanced  from  her  garments  full  many  precious  stones,  her 
rose-red  colour  shone  full  lovely  :  try  what  he  might,  each  man  must 
confess  that  in  this  world  he  had  not  seen  aught  so  fair. 

'  Like  as  the  light  moon  stands  before  the  stars,  and  its  sheen  so 
clear  goes  over  the  clouds,  even  so  stood  she  now  before  many  fair 
women  ;  whereat  cheered  was  the  mind  of  the  hero. 

'  The  rich  chamberlains  you  saw  go  before  her,  the  high-spirited 
Recken  would  not  forbear,  but  pressed  on  where  they  saw  the  lovely 
maiden.    Siegfried  the  lord  was  both  glad  and  sad. 

'  He  thought  in  his  mind,  How  could  this  be  that  I  should  woo 
thee q  That  was  a  foolish  dream  ;  yet  must  I  forever  be  a  stranger, 
I  were  rather  (sunfter,  softer)  dead.  He  became,  from  these  thoughts, 
in  quick  changes,  pale  and  red. 

'  Thus  stood  so  lovely  the  child  of  Siegelinde,  as  if  he  were  limned 
on  parchment  by  a  master's  art ;  for  all  granted  that  hero  so  beauti- 
ful they  had  never  seen.' 

In  this  passage,  which  we  have  rendered,  from  the  Fifth 
Aventiure,  into  the  closest  prose,  it  is  to  be  remarked,  among 
other  singularities,  that  there  are  two  similes  :  in  which  fig- 
ure of  speech  our  old  Singer  deals  very  sparingly.  The 
first,  that  comparison  of  Chriemhild  to  the  moon  among  stars 
with  its  sheen  going  over  the  clouds,  has  now  for  many  cen- 


THE  MIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


323 


turies  had  little  novelty  or  merit :  but  the  second,  that  of  Sieg- 
fried to  a  Figure  in  some  illuminated  Manuscript,  is  grace- 
ful in  itself ;  and  unspeakably  so  to  antiquaries,  seldom  hon- 
oured, in  their  Black-letter  stubbing  and  grubbing,  with  such 
a  poetic  windfall ! 

A  prince  and  a  princess  of  this  quality  are  clearly  made  for 
one  another.  Nay,  on  the  motion  of  young  Herr  Gemot, 
fair  Chriemhild  is  bid  specially  to  salute  Siegfried,  she  who 
had  never  before  saluted  man  ;  which  unparalleled  grace  the 
lovely  one,  in  all  courtliness,  openly  does  him.  "  Be  wel- 
come," said  she,  "  Herr  Siegfried,  a  noble  Ritter  good ; " 
from  which  salute,  for  this  seems  to  have  been  all,  '  much 
raised  was  his  mind.'  He  bowed  with  graceful  reverence,  as 
his  manner  was  with  women  ;  she  took  him  by  the  hand,  and 
with  fond  stolen  glances  they  looked  at  each  other.  Whether 
in  that  ceremonial  joining  of  hands  there  might  not  be  some 
soft,  slight  pressure,  of  far  deeper  import,  is  what  our  Singer 
will  not  take  upon  him  to  say  ;  however,  he  thinks  the  af- 
firmative more  probable.  Henceforth,  in  that  bright  May 
weather,  the  two  were  seen  constantly  together  :  nothing  but 
felicity  around  and  before  them.  —  In  these  days,  truly,  it 
must  have  been  that  the  famous  Prize-fight,  with  Dietrich  of 
Bern  and  his  Eleven  Lombardy  champions  took  place,  little 
to  the  profit  of  the  two  Lovers  ;  were  it  not  rather  that  the 
whole  of  that  Rose-garden  transaction,  as  given  in  the  Hel- 
denbuch,  might  be  falsified  and  even  imaginary  ;  for  no  men- 
tion or  hint  of  it  occurs  here.  "War  or  battle  is  not  heard 
of ;  Siegfried  the  peerless  walks  wooingly  by  the  side  of 
Chriemhild  the  peerless;  matters,  it  is  evident,  are  in  the. 
best  possible  course. 

But  now  comes  a  new  side-wind,  which,  however,  in  the 
long-run  also  forwards  the  voyage.  Tidings,  namely,  reached 
over  the  Rhine,  not  so  surprising  we  might  hope,  '  that  there 
was  many  a  fair  maiden ; '  whereupon  Gunther  the  King 
•  thought  with  himself  to  win  one  of  them.'  It  was  an  hon- 
est purpose  in  King  Gunther,  only  his  choice  was  not  the 


324 


MISCELLANIES. 


discreetest.  For  no  fair  maiden  will  content  him  but  Queen 
Brunhild,  a  lady  who  rules  in  Isenland,  far  over  sea,  famed 
indeed  for  her  beauty,  yet  no  less  so  for  her  caprices.  Fa- 
bles we ,  have  met  with  of  this  Brunhild  being  properly  a 
Valkyr,  or  Scandinavian  Houri,  such  as  were  wont  to  lead 
old  northern  warriors  from  their  last  battle-field  into  Valhal- 
la ;  and  that  her  castle  of  Isenstein  stood  amidst  a  lake  of 
fire  :  but  this,  as  we  said,  is  fable  and  groundless  calumny, 
of  which  there  is  not  so  much  as  notice  taken  here.  Brun- 
hild, it  is  plain  enough,  was  a  flesh-and-blood  maiden,  glori- 
ous in  look  and  faculty,  only  with  some  preternatural  talents 
given  her,  and  the  strangest  wayward  habits.  It  appears, 
for  example,  that  any  suitor  proposing  for  her  has  this  brief 
condition  to  proceed  upon  :  he  must  try  the  adorable  in  the 
three  several  games  of  hurling  the  Spear  (at  one  another), 
Leaping,  and  throwing  the  Stone ;  if  victorious,  he  gains  her 
hand ;  if  vanquished,  he  loses  his  own  head ;  which  latter 
issue,  such  is  the  fair  Amazon's  strength,  frequent  fatal  ex- 
periment has  shown  to  be  the  only  probable  one. 

Siegfried,  who  knows  something  of  Brunhild  and  her  ways, 
votes  clearly  against  the  whole  enterprise  ;  however,  Gun- 
ther  has  once  for  all  got  the  whim  in  him,  and  must  see  it 
out.  The  prudent  Hagen  von  Troneg,  uncle  to  love-sick 
Gunther,  and  ever  true  to  him,  then  advises  that  Siegfried  be 
requested  to  take  part  in  the  adventure  ;  to  which  request 
Siegfried  readily  accedes  on  one  condition  :  that,  should  they 
prove  fortunate,  he  himself  is  to  have  Chriemhikl  to  wife  when 
they  return.  This  readily  settled,  he  now  takes  charge  of  the 
business,  and  throws  a  little  light  on  it  for  the  others.  They 
must  lead  no  army  thither ;  only  two,  Hagen  and  Dank  wart, 
besides  the  king  and  himself,  shall  go.  The  grand  subject 
of  waete  1  (clothes)  is  next  hinted  at,  and  in  general  terms 
elucidated ;  whereupon  a  solemn  consultation  with  Chriem- 
hild  ensues  ;  and  a  great  cutting-out,  on  her  part,  of  white 

1  Hence  our  English  weeds,  and  Scotch  wad  (pledge);  and,  say  the  ety- 
mologists, wadding,  and  even  weddiny. 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


325 


silk  from  Araby,  of  green  silk  from  Zazemang,  of  strange 
fish-skins  covered  with  morocco  silk  ;  a  great  sewing  thereof 
for  seven  weeks,  on  the  part  of  her  maids  ;  lastly,  a  fitting- 
on  of  the  three  suits  by  each  hero,  for  each  had  three  ;  and 
heartiest  thanks  in  return,  seeing  all  fitted  perfectly,  and  was 
of  grace  and  price  unutterable.  What  is  still  more  to  the 
point,  Siegfried  takes  his  Cloak  of  Darkness  with  him,  fan- 
cying he  may  need  it  there.  The  good  old  Singer,  who  has 
hitherto  alluded  only  in  the  faintest  way  to  Siegfried's  prior 
adventures  and  miraculous  possessions,  introduces  this  of  the 
Tarnkappe  with  great  frankness  and  simplicity.  '  Of  wild 
'  dwarfs  {yetweryeii)]  says  he,  'I  have  heard  tell,  they  are  in 
'  hollow  mountains,  and  for  defence  wear  somewhat  called 
'  Tarnkappe,  of  wondrous  sort ; '  the  qualities  of  which  gar- 
ment, that  it  renders  invisible,  and  gives  twelve  men's 
strength,  are  already  known  to  us. 

The  voyage  to  Isenstein,  Siegfried  steering  the  ship  thith- 
er, is  happily  accomplished  in  twenty  days.  Gunther  ad- 
mires to  a  high  degree  the  fine  masonry  of  the  place  ;  as 
indeed  he  well  might,  there  being  some  eighty-six  towers, 
three  immense  palaces  and  one  immense  hall,  the  whole  built 
of  '  marble  green  as  grass ; '  farther  he  sees  many  fair 
women  looking  from  the  windows  down  on  the  bark,  and 
thinks  the  loveliest  is  she  in  the  snow-white  dress ;  which, 
Siegfried  informs  him,  is  a  worthy  choice ;  the  snow-white 
maiden  being  no  other  than  Brunhild.  It  is  also  to  be  kept 
in  mind  that  Siegfried,  for  reasons  known  best  to  himself,  had 
previously  stipulated  that,  though  a  free  king,  they  should  all 
treat  him  as  vassal  of  Gunther,  for  whom  accordingly  he 
holds  the  stirrup,  as  they  mount  on  the  beach ;  thereby  giv- 
ing rise  to  a  misconception,  which  in  the  end  led  to  saddest 
consequences. 

Queen  Brunhild,  who  had  called  back  her  maidens  from 
the  windows,  being  a  strict  disciplinarian,  and  retired  into  the 
interior  of  her  green  marble  Isenstein,  to  dress  still  better, 
now  inquires  of  some  attendant,  Who  these  strangers  of  such 


326 


MISCELLANIES. 


lordly  aspect  are,  and  what  brings  tliem  ?  The  attendant 
professes  himself  at  a  loss  to  say  ;  one  of  them  looks  like 
Siegfried,  the  other  is  evidently  by  Ins  port  a  noble  king. 
His  notice  of  Yon  Troneg  Iiagen  is  peculiarly  vivid : 

The  third  of  those  companions    He  is  of  aspect  stern, 
And  yet  with  lovely  body,    Rich  queen,  as  ye  might  discern; 
From  those  his  rapid  glances,    For  the  eyes  naught  rest  in  him, 
Meseems  this  foreign  Recke    Is  of  temper  fierce  and  grim. 

This  is  one  of  those  little  graphic;  touches,  scattered  all  over 
our  Poem,  which  do  more  for  picturing  out  an  object,  espe- 
cially a  man,  than  whole  pages  of  enumeration  and  men- 
suration. Never  after  do  we  hear  of  this  stout  indomi- 
table Hagen,  in  all  the  wild  deeds  and  sufferings  he  passes 
through,  but  those  swinden  blicken  of  his  come  before  us, 
with  the  restless,  deep,  dauntless  spirit  that  looks  through 
them. 

Brunhild's  reception  of  Siegfried  is  not  without  tartness ; 
which,  however,  he,  with  polished  courtesy,  and  the  nimblest 
address,  ever  at  his  command,  softens  down,  or  hurries  over : 
he  is  here,  without  will  of  his  own,  and  so  forth,  only  as  at- 
tendant on  his  master,  the  renowned  King  Gunther,  who 
comes  to  sue  for  her  hand,  as  the  summit  and  keystone  of  all 
earthly  blessings.  Brunhild,  who  had  determined  on  fighting 
Siegfried  himself,  if  so  he  willed  it,  makes  small  account  of 
this  King  Gunther  or  his  prowess ;  and  instantly  clears  the 
ground,  and  equips  her  for  battle.  The  royal  wooer  must 
have  looked  a  little  blank  when  he  saw  a  shield  brought  in 
for  his  fair  one's  handling,  '  three  spans  thick  with  gold  and 
iron,'  which  four  chamberlains  could  hardly  bear,  and  a  spear 
or  javelin  she  meant  to  shoot  or  hurl,  which  was  a  burden 
for  three.  Hagen,  in  angry  apprehension  for  his  king  and 
nephew,  exclaims  that  they  shall  all  lose  their  life  (lip),  and 
that  she  is  the  tiuvels  wip,  or  Devil's  wife.  Nevertheless 
Siegfried  is  already  there  in  his  Cloak  of  Darkness,  twelve 
men  strong,  and  privily  whispers  in  the  ear  of  royalty  to  be 
of  comfort ;  takes  the  shield  to  himself,  Gunther  only  affect- 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


327 


ing  to  hold  it,  and  so  fronts  the  edge  of  battle.  Brunhild 
performs  prodigies  of  spear-hurling,  of  leaping,  and  stone- 
pitching  ;  but  Gunther,  or  rather  Siegfried,  '  who  does  the 
work,  he  only  acting  the  gestures,'  nay  who  even  snatches 
him  up  into  the  air,  and  leaps  carrying  him,  —  gains  a  de- 
cided victory,  and  the  lovely  Amazon  must  own  with  surprise 
and  shame,  that  she  is  fairly  won.  Siegfried  presently  ap- 
pears without  Tcwnkappe,  and  asks  with  a  grave  face,  When 
the  games  then  are  to  begin  ? 

So  far  well ;  yet  somewhat  still  remains  to  be  done. 
Brunhild  will  not  sail  for  "Worms,  to  be  wedded,  till  she 
have  assembled  a  fit  train  of  warriors :  wherein  the  Burgun- 
dians,  being  here  without  retinue,  see  symptoms  or  possibil- 
ities of  mischief.  The  deft  Siegfried,  ablest  of  men,  again 
knows  a  resource.  In  his  Tarnkappe  he  steps  on  board  the 
bark,  which  seen  from  the  shore,  appears  to  drift-off  of  its 
own  accord  ;  and  therein,  stoutly  steering  towards  Nilehmgen- 
land,  he  reaches  that  mysterious  country  and  the  mountain 
where  his  Hoard  lies,  before  the  second  morning ;  finds 
Dwarf  Alberich  and  all  his  giant  sentinels  at  their  post,  and 
faithful  almost  to  the  death ;  these  soon  rouse  him  thirty 
thousand  Nibelungen  Recken,  from  whom  he  has  only  to 
choose  one  thousand  of  the  best ;  equip  them  splendidly 
enough  ;  and  therewith  return  to  Gunther,  simply  as  if  they 
were  that  sovereign's  own  body-guard,  that  had  been  delayed 
a  little  by  stress  of  weather. 

The  final  arrival  at  Worms  ;  the  bridal  feasts,  for  there 
are  two,  Siegfried  also  receiving  his  reward ;  and  the  joyance 
and  splendour  of  man  and  maid,  at  this  lordliest  of  high- 
tides  ;  and  the  joustings,  greater  than  those  at  Aspramont  or 
Montauban,  —  every  reader  can  fancy  for  himself.  Remark- 
able only  is  the  evil  eye  with  which  Queen  Brunhild  still 
continues  to  regard  the  noble  Siegfried.  She  cannot  under- 
stand how  Gunther,  the  Landlord  of  the  Rhine,1  should  have 

1  Der  Wirt  von  Rine:  singular  enough,  the  word  Wirth,  often  applied  to 
royalty  in  that  old  dialect,  is  now  also  the  title  of  innkeepers.  To  such 
base  uses  may  we  come. 


328 


MISCELLANIES. 


bestowed  his  sister  on  a  vassal :  the  assurance  that  Siegfried 
also  is  a  prince  and  heir-apparent,  the  prince  namely  of  Neth- 
erland,  and  little  inferior  to  Burgundian  majesty  itself,  yields 
no  complete  satisfaction  ;  and  Brunhild  hints  plainly  that, 
unless  the  truth  be  told  her,  unpleasant  consequences  may 
follow.  Thus  is  there  ever  a  ravelled  thread  in  the  web  of 
life  !  But  for  this  little  cloud  of  spleen,  these  bridal  feasts 
had  been  all  bright  and  balmy  as  the  month  of  June.  Un- 
luckily too,  the  cloud  is  an  electric  one  ;  spreads  itself  in 
time  into  a  general  earthquake  ;  nay  that  very  night  becomes 
a  thunder-storm,  or  tornado,  unparalleled  we  may  hope  in 
the  annals  of  connubial  happiness. 

The  Singer  of  the  Nibelungen,  unlike  the  Author  of  Rod- 
erick Random,  cares  little  for  intermeddling  with  '  the  chaste 
mysteries  of  Hymen.'  Could  we,  in  the  corrupt  ambiguous 
modern  tongue,  hope  to  exhibit  any  shadow  of  the  old  simple, 
true-hearted,  merely  historical  spirit,  with  which,  in  perfect 
purity  of  soul,  he  describes  things  unattempted  yet  in  prose 
or  rhyme,  —  we  could  a  tale  unfold  !  Suffice  it  to  say,  King 
Gunther,  Landlord  of  the  Rhine,  falling  sheer  down  from  the 
third  heaven  of  hope,  finds  his  spouse  the  most  athletic  and 
intractable  of  women  ;  and  himself,  at  the  close  of  the  adven- 
ture, nowise  encircled  in  her  arms,  but  tied  hard  and  fast, 
hand  and  foot,  in  her  girdle,  and  hung  thereby,  at  consider- 
able elevation,  on  a  nail  in  the  wall.  Let  any  reader  of  sen- 
sibility figure  the  emotions  of  the  royal  breast,  there  as  he 
vibrates  suspended  on  his  peg,  and  his  inexorable  bride  sleep- 
ing sound  in  her  bed  below  !  Towards  morning  he  capit- 
ulates ;  engaging  to  observe  the  prescribed  line  of  conduct 
with  utmost  strictness,  so  he  may  but  avoid  becoming  a 
laughing-stock  to  all  men. 

No  wonder  the  dread  king  looked  rather  grave  next 
morning,  and  received  the  congratulations  of  mankind  in  a 
cold  manner.  He  confesses  to  Siegfried,  who  partly  suspects 
how  it  may  be,  that  he  has  brought  the  '  evil  devil '  home  to 
his  house  in  the  shape  of  wife,  whereby  lie  is  wretched 


THE  NIBELTJNGEN  LIED. 


329 


enough.  However,  -there  are  remedies  for  all  things  but 
death.  The  evei-serviceable  Siegfried  undertakes  even  here 
to  make  the  crooked  straight.  What  may  not  an  honest 
friend  with  Tarnkappe  and  twelve  men's  strength  perform  ? 
Proud  Brunhild,  next  night,  after  a  fierce  contest,  owns  her- 
self again  vanquished ;"  Gunther  is  there  to  reap  the  fruits  of 
another's  victory ;  the  noble  Siegfried  withdraws,  taking  noth- 
ing with  him  but  the  luxury  of  doing  good,  and  the  proud 
queen's  Ring  and  Girdle  gained  from  her  in  that  struggle ; 
which  small  trophies  he,  with  the  last  infirmity  of  a  noble 
mind,  presents  to  his  own  fond  wife,  little  dreaming  that  they 
would  one  day  cost  him  and  her,  and  all  of  them,  so  dear. 
Such  readers  as  take  any  interest  in  poor  Gunther  will  be 
gratified  to  learn,  that  from  this  hour  Brunhild's  preternat- 
ural faculties  quite  left  her,  being  all  dependent  on  her 
maidhood ;  so  that  any  more  spear-hurling,  or  other  the 
like  extraordinary  work,  is  not  to  be  apprehended  from 
her. 

If  we  add,  that  Siegfried  formerly  made  over  to  his  dear 
Chriemhild  the  Nibelungen  Hoard,  by  way  of  Morgengabe 
(or,  as  we  may  say,  Jointure)  ;  and  the  high-tide,  though 
not  the  honeymoon  being  past,  returned  to  Netherland  with 
his  spouse,  to  be  welcomed  there  with  infinite  rejoicings,  — 
we  have  gone  through  as  it  were  the  First  Act  of  this 
Tragedy ;  and  may  here  pause  to  look  round  us  for  a  mo- 
ment. The  main  characters  are  now  introduced  on  the 
scene,  the  relations  that  bind  them  together  are  dimly 
sketched  out:  there  is  the  prompt,  cheerfully  heroic,  invul- 
nerable and  invincible  Siegfried,  now  happiest  of  men  ;  the 
high  Chriemhild,  fitly-mated,  and  if  a  moon,  revolving  glo- 
rious round  her  sun,  or  Friedel  (joy  and  darling)  ;  not  with- 
out pride  and  female  aspirings,  yet  not  prouder  than  one  so 
gifted  and  placed  is  pardonable  for  being.  On  the  other 
hand,  we  have  King  Gunther,  or  rather  let  us  say  king's- 
mantle  Gunther,  for  never  except  in  that  one  enterprise  of 
courting  Brunhild,  in  which  too,  without  help,  he  would  have 


330 


MISCELLANIES. 


cut  so  poor  a  figure,  does  the  worthy  sovereign  show  will  of 
his  own,  or  character  other  than  that  of  good  potter's  clay ; 
farther,  the  suspicious,  forecasting,  jet  stout  and  reckless 
Hagen,  him  with  the  rapid  glances,  and  these  turned  not 
too  kindly  on  Siegfried,  whose  prowess  he  has  used  yet 
dreads,  whose  Nihelungen  Hoard  he  perhaps  already  covets ; 
lastly,  the  rigorous  and  vigorous  Brunhild,  of  whom  also 
more  is  to  he  feared  than  hoped.  Considering  the  fierce 
nature  of  these  now  mingled  ingredients ;  and  how,  except 
perhaps  in  the  case  of  Gunther,  there  is  no  menstruum  of 
placid  stupidity  to  soften  them  ;  except  in  Siegfried,  no  ele- 
ment of  heroic  truth  to  master  them  and  bind  them  together, 
—  unquiet  fermentation  may  readily  be  apprehended. 

Meanwhile,  for  a  season  all  is  peace  and  sunshine.  Sieg- 
fried reigns  in  Netherland,  of  which  his  father  has  surren- 
dered him  the  crown  ;  Chrierahild  brings  him  a  son,  whom 
in  honor  of  the  uncle  he  christens  Gunther,  which  courtesy 
the  uncle  and  Brunhild  repay  in  kind.  The  Nibelungen 
Hoard  is  still  open  and  inexhaustible  ;  Dwarf  Alberich  and 
all  the  Recken  there  still  loyal ;  outward  relations  friendly, 
internal  supremely  prosperous  :  these  are  halcyon  days. 
But,  alas,  they  cannot  last.  Queen  Brunhild,  retaining  with 
true  female  tenacity  her  first  notion,  right  or  wrong,  re- 
flects one  day  that  Siegfried,  who  is  and  shall  be  nothing 
but  her  husband's  vassal,  has  for  a  long  while  paid  him  no 
service ;  and,  determined  on  a  remedy,  manages  that  Sieg- 
fried and  his  queen  shall  be  invited  to  a  high-tide  at  Worms, 
where  opportunity  may  chance  for  enforcing  that  claim. 
Thither  accordingly,  after  ten  years'  absence,  we  find  these 
illustrious  guests  returning;  Siegfried  escorted  by  a  thou- 
sand Nibelungen  Ritters,  and  farther  by  his  father  Siege- 
mund  who  leads  a  train  of  Netherlander.  Here  for  eleven 
days,  amid  infinite  joustings,  there  is  a  true  heaven-on-eartli  : 
but  the  apple  of  discord  is  already  lying  in  the  knightly  ring, 
and  two  Women,  the  proudest  and  keenest-tempered  of  the 
world,  simultaneously  stoop  to  lift  it.    Avcntiure  Fourteenth 


THE  N1RELUNGEN  LIED. 


331 


is  entitled  '  How  t^ie  two  queens  rated  one  another.'  Never 
was  courtlier  Billingsgate  uttered,  or  which  came  more  di- 
rectly home  to  the  business  and  bosoms  of  women.  The 
subject  is  that  old  story  of  Precedence,  which  indeed,  from 
the  time  of  Cain  and  Abel  downwards,  has  wrought  such 
effusion  of  blood  and  bile  both  among  men  and  women ; 
lying  at  the  bottom  of  all  armaments  and  battle-fields, 
whether  Blenheims  and  Waterloos,  or  only  plate-displays, 
and  tongue-and-eye  skirmishes,  in  the  circle  of  domestic 
Tea :  nay,  the  very  animals  have  it ;  and  horses,  were  they 
but  the  miserablest  Shelties  and  Welsh  ponies,  will  not 
graze  together  till  it  has  been  ascertained,  by  clear  fight, 
who  is  master  of  whom,  and  a  proper  drawing-room  eti- 
quette established. 

Brunhild  and  Chriemhild  take  to  arguing  about  the  merits 
of  their  husbands  :  the  latter,  fondly  expatiating  on  the  pre- 
eminence of  her  Friedel,  how  he  walks  '  like  the  moon 
among  stars  '  before  all  other  men,  is  reminded  by  her  sis- 
ter that  one  man  at  least  must  be  excepted,  the  mighty  King 
Gunther  of  "Worms,  to  whom  by  his  own  confession  long 
ago  at  Isenstein,  he  is  vassal  and  servant.  Chriemhild  will 
sooner  admit  that  clay  is  above  sunbeams,  than  any  such 
proposition ;  which  therefore  she,  in  all  politeness,  requests  of 
her  sister  nevermore  to  touch  upon  while  she  lives.  The 
result  may  be  foreseen :  rejoinder  follows  reply,  statement 
grows  assertion  ;  flint-sparks  have  fallen  on  the  dry  flax, 
which  from  smoke  bursts  into  conflagration.  The  two 
queens  part  in  hottest,  though  still  clear-flaming  anger.  Not, 
however,  to  let  their  anger  burn  out,  but  only  to  feed  it 
with  more  solid  fuel.  Chriemhild  dresses  her  forty  maids 
in  finer  than  royal  apparel  ;  orders  out  all  her  husband's 
Recken  ;  and  so  attended,  walks  foremost  to  the  Minster, 
where  mass  is  to  be  said;  thus  practically  asserting  that 
she  is  not  only  a  true  queen,  but  the  worthier  of  the  two. 
Brunhild,  quite  outdone  in  splendour,  and  enraged  beyond 
all  patience,  overtakes  her  at  the  door  of  the  Minster,  with 


332 


MISCELLANIES. 


peremptory  order  to  stop  :  "  before  king's  wife  shall  vassal's 
never  go." 

Then  said  the  fair  Chriemhild,     Right  angry  was  her  mood: 
"  Couldest  thou  but  hold  thy  peace,    It  were  surely  for  thy  good; 
Thyself  hast  all  polluted    With  shame  thy  fair  bodye; 
How  can  a  Concubine    By  right  a  King's  wife  be?  " 

"  Whom  hast  thou  Concubined?"    The  King's  wife  quickly  spake; 
"  That  do  I  thee,"  said  Chriemhild;    "  For  thy  pride  and  vaunting' s  sake; 
Who  first  had  thy  fair  body    Was  Siegfried  my  beloved  Man; 
My  Brother  it  was  not    That  thy  maidhood  from  thee  wan." 

In  proof  of  which  outrageous  saying,  she  produces  that 
Ring  and  Girdle ;  the  innocent  conquest  of  which,  as  we 
well  know,  had  a  far  other  origin.  Brunhild  bursts  into 
tears ;  '  sadder  day  she  never  saw.'  Nay,  perhaps  a  new 
light  now  rose  on  her  over  much  that  had  been  dark  in  her 
late  history  ;  '  she  rued  full  sore  that  ever  she  was  born.' 

Here,  then,  is  the  black  injury,  which  only  blood  will 
wash  away.  The  evil  fiend  has  begun  his  work ;  and  the 
issue  of  it  lies  beyond  man's  control.  Siegfried  may  pro- 
test his  innocence  of  that  calumny,  and  chastise  his  indis- 
creet spouse  for  uttering  it  even  in  the  heat  of  anger  :  the 
female  heart  is  wounded  beyond  healing ;  the  old  springs  of 
bitterness  against  this  hero  unite  into  a  fell  flood  of  hate ; 
while  he  sees  the  sunlight,  she  cannot  know  a  joyful  hour. 
Vengeance  is  soon  offered  her :  Hagen,  who  lives  only  for 
his  prince,  undertakes  this  bad  service  ;  by  treacherous  pro- 
fessions of  attachment,  and  anxiety  to  guard  Siegfried's  life, 
he  gains  from  Chriemhild  the  secret  of  his  vulnerability  ; 
Siegfried  is  carried  out  to  hunt ;  and  in  the  hour  of  frank- 
est gaiety  is  stabbed  through  the  fatal  spot ;  and,  felling  the 
murderer  to  the  ground,  dies  upbraiding  his  false  kindred, 
yet,  with  a  touching  simplicity,  recommending  his  child  and 
wife  to  their  protection.  ' "  Let  her  feel  that  she  is  your 
'  sister ;  was  there  ever  virtue  in  princes,  be  true  to  her : 
'  for  me  my  Father  and  my  men  shall  long  wait."  The 
'  flowers  all  around  were  wetted  with  blood,  then  he  strug- 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


333 


'gled  with  death  ;  not  long  did  he  this,  the  weapon  cut  him 
'  too  keen  ;  so  he  could  speak  naught  more,  the  Recke  bold 
'  and  noble.' 

At  this  point,  we  might  say,  ends  the  Third  Act  of  our 
Tragedy ;  the  whole  story  henceforth  takes  a  darker  char- 
acter ;  it  is  as  if  a  tone  of  sorrow  and  fateful  boding  became 
more  and  more  audible  in  its  free,  light  music.  Evil  has 
produced  new  evil  in  fatal  augmentation  :  injury  is  abol- 
ished ;  but  in  its  stead  there  is  guilt  and  despair.  Chriem- 
hild,  an  hour  ago  so  rich,  is  now  robbed  of  all :  her  grief  is 
boundless  as  her  love  has  been.  No  glad  thought  can  ever 
more  dwell  in  her  ;  darkness,  utter  night  has  come  over  her, 
as  she  looked  into  the  red  of  morning.  The  spoiler  took  walks 
abroad  unpunished  ;  the  bleeding  corpse  witnesses  against 
Hagen,  nay  he  himself  cares  not  to  hide  the  deed.  But  who 
is  there  to  avenge  the  friendless  ?  Siegfried's  Father  has 
returned  in  haste  to  his  own  land  ;  Chriemhild  is  now  alone 
on  the  earth,  her  husband's  grave  is  all  that  remains  to  her ; 
there  only  can  she  sit,  as  if  waiting  at  the  threshold  of  her 
own  dark  home  ;  and  in  prayers  and  tears  pour  out  the 
sorrow  and  love  that  have  no  end.  Still  farther  injuries 
are  heaped  on  her:  by  advice  of  the  crafty  Hagen,  Gun- 
ther,  who  had  not  planned  the  murder,  yet  permitted  and 
witnessed  it,  now  comes  with  whining  professions  of  re- 
pentance and  good-will ;  persuades  her  to  send  for  the  Nibe- 
lungen  Hoard  to  "Worms  ;  where  no  sooner  is  it  arrived, 
than  Hagen  and  the  rest  forcibly  take  it  from  her ;  and  her 
last  trust  in  affection  or  truth  from  mortal  is  rudely  cut  away. 
Bent  to  the  earth,  she  weeps  only  for  her  lost  Siegfried, 
knows  no  comfort,  but  will  weep  forever. 

One  lurid  gleam  of  hope,  after  long  years  of  darkness, 
bi-eaks  in  on  her,  in  the  prospect  of  revenge.  King  Etzel 
sends  from  his  far  country  to  solicit  her  hand :  the  embassy 
she  hears  at  first,  as  a  woman  of  ice  might  do  ;  the  good 
Rudiger,  Etzel's  spokesman,  pleads  in  vain  that  his  king  is 
the  richest  of  all  earthly  kings  ;  that  he  is  so  lonely  '  since 


334 


MISCELLANIES. 


Frau  Helke  died ; '  that  though  a  heathen,  he  has  Chris- 
tians  about  him,  and  may  one  day  be  converted:  till  at 
length,  when  he  hints  distantly  at  the  power  of  Etzel  to 
avenge  her  injuries,  she  on  a  sudden  becomes  all  attention. 
Hagen,  foreseeing  such  possibilities,  protests  against  the 
match  ;  but  is  overruled :  Chriemhild  departs  with  Rudi- 
ger  for  the  land  of  the  Huns  ;  taking  cold  leave  of  her  rela- 
tions; only  two  of  whom,  her  brothers  Gemot  and  Geiselher, 
innocent  of  that  murder,  does  she  admit  near  her  as  convoy 
to  the  Donau. 

The  Nibelungen  Hoard  has  hitherto  been  fatal  to  all  its 
possessors  ;  to  the  two  sons  of  Nibelung ;  to  Siegfried  its 
conqueror :  neither  does  the  Burgundian  Royal  House  fare 
better  with  it.  Already,  discords  threatening  to  arise,  Ha- 
gen sees  prudent  to  sink  it  in  the  Rhine ;  first  taking  oath 
of  Gunther  and  his  brothers,  that  none  of  them  shall  reveal 
the  hiding-place,  while  any  of  the  rest  is  alive.  But  the 
curse  that  clave  to  it  could  not  be  sunk  there.  The  Nibe- 
lungen-land  is  now  theirs:  they  themselves  are  henceforth 
called  Nibelungen  ;  and  this  history  of  their  fate  is  the  Nibe- 
lungen Song,  or  Nibelungen  Noth  (Nibelungen's  Need,  ex- 
treme need,  or  final  wreck  and  abolition). 

The  Fifth  Act  of  our  strange  eventful  history  now  draws 
on.  Chriemhild  has  a  kind  husband,  of  hospitable  disposi- 
tion, who  troubles  himself  little  about  her  secret  feelings  and 
intents.  With  his  permission,  she  sends  two  minstrels,  in- 
viting the  Burgundian  Court  to  a  high-tide  at  Etzel's  :  she 
has  charged  the  messengers  to  say  that  she  is  happy,  and  to 
bring  all  Gunther's  champions  with  them.  Her  eye  was  on 
Hagen,  but  she  could  not  single  him  from  the  rest.  After 
seven  days'  deliberation,  Gunther  answers  that  he  will  come. 
Hagen  '  has  loudly  dissuaded  the  journey,  but  again  been 
overruled.  '  It  is  his  fate,'  says  a  commentator,  '  like  Cas- 
'  sandra's,  ever  to  foresee  the  evil,  and  ever  to  be  disregarded. 
'  He  himself  shut  his  ear  against  the  inward  voice  ;  and  now 
'  his  warnings  are  uttered  to  the  deaf.'    He  argues  long,  but 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


335 


in  vain  :  nay  young  G-ernot  hints  at  last  that  this  aversion 
originates  in  personal  fear  : 

Then  spake  Von  Troueg  Hagen:    "  Nowise  is  it  through  fear; 
So  you  command  it,  Heroes,    Then  up,  gird  on  your  gear; 
I  ride  with  you  the  foremost    Into  King  Etzel's  land." 
Since  then  full  many  a  helm    Was  shivered  by  his  hand. 

Frau  Ute's  dreams  and  omens  are  now  unavailing  with 
him  ;  "  whoso  heedeth  dreams,"  said  Hagen,  "  of  the  right 
story  wotteth  not : "  he  has  computed  the  worst  issue,  and 
defied  it. 

Many  a  little  touch  of  pathos,  and  even  solemn  beauty 
lies  carelessly  scattered  in  these  rhymes,  had  we  space  to 
exhibit  such  here.  As  specimen  of  a  strange,  winding, 
diffuse,  yet  innocently  graceful  style  of  narrative,  we  had 
translated  some  considerable  portion  of  this  Twenty-fifth 
Aventiure,  '  How  the  Nibelungen  marched  (fared)  to  the 
Huns,'  into  verses  as  literal  as  might  be  ;  which  now,  alas, 
look  mournfully  different  from  the  original ;  almost  like  Scrib- 
lerus's  shield  when  the  barbarian  housemaid  had  scoured  it ! 
Nevertheless,  to  do  for  the  reader  what  we  can,  let  somewhat 
of  that  modernised  ware,  such  as  it  is,  be  set  before  him. 
The  brave  Nibelungen  are  on  the  eve  of  departure  ;  and 
about  ferrying  over  the  Rhine  :  and  here  it  may  be  noted 
that  Worms,1  with  our  old  Singer,  lies  not  in  its  true  position, 

1  This  City  of  Worms,  had  we  a  right  imagination,  ought  to  be  as  vener- 
able to  us  Moderns,  as  any  Thebes  or  Troy  was  to  the  Ancients.  Whether 
founded  by  the  Gods  or  not,  it  is  of  quite  unknown  antiquity,  and  has 
witnessed  the  most  wonderful  things.  Within  authentic  times,  the  Ro- 
mans were  here;  and  if  tradition  may  be  credited,  Attila  also;  it  was  the 
seat  of  the  Austrasian  kings ;  the  frequent  residence  of  Charlemagne  him- 
self; innumerable  Festivals,  High-tides,  Tournaments  and  Imperial  Diets 
were  held  in  it,  of  which  latter,  one  at  least,  that  where  Luther  appeared 
in  1521,  will  be  forever  remembered  by  all  mankind.  Nor  is  Worms  more 
famous  in  history  than,  as  indeed  we  may  see  here,  it  is  in  romance; 
whereof  many  monuments  and  vestiges  remain  to  this  day.  1  A  pleasant 
'  meadow  there,'  says  Von  der  Hagen,  '  is  still  called  Chriemhild's  Rosen- 
'  garten.  The  name  Worms  itself  is  derived  (by  Legendary  Etymology) 
'  from  the  Dragon,  or  Worm,  which  Siegfried  slew,  the  figure  of  which 
'  once  formed  the  City  Arms;  in  past  times,  there  was  also  to  be  seen  here 


336 


MISCELLANIES. 


but  at  some  distance  from  the  river ;  a  proof  at  least  that  he 
was  never  there,  and  probably  sang  and  lived  in  some  very 
distant  region  : 

The  boats  were  floating  ready,    And  many  men  there  were; 
What  clothes  of  price  they  had    They  took  and  stow'd  them  there, 
Was  never  a  rest  from  toiling    Until  the  eventide, 
Then  they  took  the  flood  right  gaily,    Would  longer  not  abide. 

Brave  tents  and  hutches    You  saw  raised  on  the  grass, 
Other  side  the  Rhine-stream    That  camp  it  pitched  was : 
The  king  to  stay  a  while    Was  besought  of  his  fair  wife; 
That  night  she  saw  him  with  her,    And  never  more  in  life. 

Trumpets  and  flutes  spoke  out,    At  dawning  of  the  day, 
That  time  was  come  for  parting,    So  they  rose  to  march  away : 
Who  loved-one  had  in  arms    Did  kiss  that  same,  I  ween; 
And  fond  farewells  were  bidden    By  cause  of  Etzel's  Queen. 

Frau  Ute's  noble  sons    They  had  a  serving-man, 
A  brave  one  and  a  true:    Or  ever  the  march  began, 
He  speaketh  to  King  Gunther,    What  for  his  ear  was  fit, 
He  said:  "  Woe  for  this  journey,    I  grieve  because  of  it." 

He  Rumold  hight,  the  Sewer,  .  Was  known  as  hero  true; 
He  spake:  "  Whom  shall  this  people    And  land  be  trusted  to? 
Woe  on't,  will  naught  persuade  ye,    Brave  Recken,  from  this  road! 
Frau  Chriemhild's  flattering  message    No  good  doth  seem  to  bode." 

'  an  ancient  strong  Riesen-IIaus  (Giant's  house),  and  many  a  memorial  of 
'  Siegfried:  his  Lance,  66  feet  long  I  almost  80  English  feet),  in  the  Cathe- 
'  dral ;  his  Statue,  of  gigantic  size,  on  the  Neue  Thurm  (New  Tower)  on 
'the  Rhine;'  &c.  &c.  'And  lastly  the  Siegfried's  Chapel,  in  primeval. 
'  Pre-Gothic  architecture,  not  long  since  pulled  down.  In  the  time  of  the 
'  Meistersdnyers  too,  the  Stadtrath  was  bound  to  give  every  Master,  who 
'sang  the  Lay  of  Siegfried  (Meisterlied  von  Siegfrieden,  the  purport  of 
'which  is  now  unknown)  without  mistake,  a  certain  gratuity.'  —  Glos- 
sary to  the  Nibclunyen,  §  Worms. 

One  is  sorry  to  learn  that  this  famed  Imperial  City  is  no  longer  Imperial, 
but  much  fallen  in  every  way  from  its  palmy  state;  the  30,000  inhabitants, 
to  be  found  there  in  Gustavus  Adolphus'  time,  having  now  declined  into 
some  6,800,  —  'who  maintain  themselves  by  wine-growing,  Rhine-boats, 
tobacco-manufacture,  and  making  sugar-of-lead.'  So  hard  has  war,  which 
respects  nothing,  pressed  on  Worms,  ill-placed  for  safety,  on  the  hostile 
border:  Louvois,  or  Louis  XIV.,  in  1689,  had  it  utterly  devastated ;  where- 
by in  the  interior,  '  spaces  that  were  once  covered  with  buildings  are  now 
gardens.'  —  See  Conv.  Lexicon,  §  Worms. 


THE  NIBELUXGEN  LIED. 


337 


"  The  land  to  thee  be  trusted,    And  ray  fair  boy  also, 
And  serve  thou  well  the  women,    I  tell  thee  ere  I  go ; 
Whomso  thou  findest  weeping    Her  heart  give  comfort  to; 
No  harm  to  one  of  us    King  Etzel's  wife  will  do." 

The  steeds  were  standing  ready,    For  the  Kings  and  for  their  men; 
With  kisses  tenderest    Took  leave  full  many  then, 
Who,  in  gallant  cheer  and  hope,    To  march  were  naught  afraid: 
Them  since  that  day  bewaileth    Many  a  noble  wife  and  maid. 

But  when  the  rapid  Recken    Took  horse  and  prickt  away, 
The  women  shent  in  sorrow    You  saw  behind  them  stay; 
Of  parting  all  too  long    Their  hearts  to  them  did  tell ; 
When  grief  so  great  is  coming,    The  mind  forbodes  not  well. 

Nathless  the  brisk  Burgonden    All  on  their  way  did  go, 

Then  rose  the  country  over    A  mickle  dole  and  woe; 

On  both  sides  of  the  hills    Woman  and  man  did  weep: 

Let  their  folk  do  how  they  list,    These  gay  their  course  did  keep. 

The  Nibelungen  Recken  1    Did  march  with  them  as  well, 

In  a  thousand  glittering  hauberks,    Who  at  home  had  ta'en  farewell 

Of  many  a  fair  woman    Should  see  them  never  more : 

The  wound  of  her  brave  Siegfried    Did  grieve  Chriemhilde  sore. 

Then  'gan  they  shape  their  journey    Towards  the  River  Maine, 
All  on  through  East-Franconia,    King  Gunther  and  his  train; 
Hagen  he  was  their  leader,    Of  old  did  know  the  way ; 
Daukwart  did  keep,  as  marshal,    Their  ranks  in  good  array. 

As  they,  from  East-Franconia,    The  Salfield  rode  along, 

Might  you  have  seen  them  prancing,    A  bright  and  lordly  throng, 

The  Princes  and  their  vassals,    All  heroes  of  great  fame: 

The  twelfth  morn  brave  King  Gunther    Unto  the  Donau  came. 

There  rode  Von  Troneg  Hagen,  The  foremost  of  that  host, 
He  was  to  the  Nibelungen  The  guide  they  lov'd  the  most: 
The  Ritter  keen  dismounted,  Set  foot  on  the  sandy  ground, 
His  steed  to  a  tree  he  tied,    Look'd  wistful  all  around. 

"  Much  scaith,"  Von  Troneg  said,    "  May  lightly  chance  to  thee, 
King  Gunther,  by  this  tide,    As  thou  with  eyes  mayst  see : 

1  These  are  the  Nibelungen  proper  who  had  come  to  Worms  with  Sieg- 
fried, on  the  famed  bridal  journey  from  Isenstein,  long  ago.  Observe,  at 
the  same  time,  that  ever  since  the  Nibelungen  Hoard  was  transferred  to 
Rhine-laud,  the  whole  subjects  of  King  Gunther  are  often  called  Nibelun- 
gen, and  their  subsequent  history  is  this  Nibelungen  Song. 

vol.  ii.  22 


338 


MISCELLANIES. 


The  river  is  overflowing,    Full  strong  runs  here  its  stream, 
For  crossing  of  this  Donau    Some  counsel  might  well  beseem." 

"  What  counsel  hast  thou,  brave  Hagen,"    King  Gunther  then  did  say, 
"  Of  thy  own  wit  and  cunning'?    Dishearten  me  not,  I  pray: 
Thyself  the  ford  wilt  find  us,    If  knightly  skill  it  can, 
That  safe  to  yonder  shore    We  may  pass  both  horse  and  man." 

"  To  me,  I  trow,"  spake  Hagen,    "  Life  hath  not  grown  so  cheap, 
To  go  with  will  and  drown  me    In  riding  these  waters  deep ; 
But  first,  of  men  some  few    By  this  hand  of  mine  shall  die, 
In  great  King  Etzel's  country,    As  best  good- will  have  I. 

But  bide  ye  here  by  the  River,    Ye  Ritters  brisk  and  sound, 
Myself  will  seek  some  boatman,    If  boatman  here  be  found, 
To  row  us  at  his  ferry,    Across  to  Gelfrat's  land:  " 
The  Troneger  grasped  his  buckler,    Fared  forth  along  the  strand. 

He  was  full  bravely  harness'd,    Himself  he  knightly  bore, 
With  buckler  and  with  helmet,    Which  bright  enough  he  wore; 
And,  bound  above  his  hauberk,    A  weapon  broad  was  seen, 
That  cut  with  both  its  edges,    Was  never  sword  so  keen. 

Then  hither  he  and  thither    Search' d  for  the  Ferryman, 
He  heard  a  splashing  of  waters,    To  watch  the  same  he  'gan, 
It  was  the  white  Mer-women,    That  in  a  fountain  clear, 
To  cool  their  fair  bodyes,    Were  merrily  bathing  here. 

From  these  Mer-women,  who  '  skimmed  aloof  like  white 
cygnets '  at  sight  of  him,  Hagen  snatches  up  '  their  won- 
drous raiment ; '  on  condition  of  returning  which,  they  rede 
him  his  fortune  ;  how  this  expedition  is  to  speed.  At  first 
favourably : 

She  said:  "  To  Etzel's  country,    Of  a  truth  ye  well  may  hie, 
For  here  I  pledge  my  hand,    Now  kill  me  if  I  lie, 
That  heroes  seeking  honour    Did  never  arrive  thereat 
So  richly  as  ye  shall  do,    Believe  thou  surely  that." 

But  no  sooner  is  the  wondrous  raiment  restored  them,  than 
they  change  their  tale  ;  for  in  spite  of  that  matchless  honour, 
it  appears  every  one  of  the  adventurous  Recken  is  to  perish. 

Outspake  the  wild  Mer-woman:    "  I  tell  thee  it  will  arrive, 
Of  all  your  gallant  host    No  man  shall  be  left  alive, 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


339 


Except  King  Gunther's  chaplain,  As  we  full  well  do  know; 
He  only,  home  returning,    To  the  Rhine-land  back  shall  go." 

Then  spake  Von  Troneg  Hagen,    His  wrath  did  fiercely  swell: 
"  Such  tidings  to  my  master   I  were  right  loath  to  tell, 
That  in  King  Etzel's  country    We  all  must  lose  our  life: 
Yet  show  me  over  the  water,    Thou  wise  all-knowing  mfe." 

Thereupon,  seeing  him  bent  on  ruin,  she  gives  directions 
how  to  find  the  ferry,  but  withal  counsels  him  to  deal  warily ; 
the  ferry -house  stands  on  the  other  side  of  the  river ;  the 
boatman,  too,  is  not  only  the  hottest-tempered  of  men,  but 
rich  and  indolent ;  nevertheless,  if  nothing  else  will  serve, 
let  Hagen  call  himself  Amelrich,  and  that  name  will  bring 
him.  All  happens  as  predicted  :  the  boatman,  heedless  of 
all  shouting  and  offers  of  gold  clasps,  bestirs  him  lustily  at 
the  name  of  Amelrich ;  but  the  more  indignant  is  he,  on 
taking-in  his  fare,  to  find  it  a  counterfeit.  He  orders  Hagen, 
if  he  loves  his  life,  to  leap  out. 

"Now  say  not  that,"  spake  Hagen;    "  Right  hard  am  I  bested, 
Take  from  me  for  good  friendship    This  clasp  of  gold  so  red; 
And  row  our  thousand  heroes    And  steeds  across  this  river." 
Then  spake  the  wrathful  boatman,    "  That  will  I  surely  never." 

Then  one  of  his  oars  he  lifted,    Right  broad  it  was  and  long, 
He  struck  it  down  on  Hagen,    Did  the  hero  mickle  wrong, 
That  in  the  boat  he  staggered,    And  alighted  on  his  knee; 
Other  such  wrathful  boatman    Did  never  the  Troneger  see. 

His  proud  unbidden  guest    He  would  now  provoke  still  more, 
He  struck  his  head  so  stoutly    That  it  broke  in  twain  the  oar, 
With  strokes  on  head  of  Hagen;    He  was  a  sturdy  wight: 
Nathless  had  Gelfrat's  boatman    Small  profit  of  that  fight. 

With  fiercely  raging  spirit,    The  Troneger  turn'd  him  round, 
Clutch'd  quick  enough  his  scabbard,    And  a  weapon  there  he  found; 
He  smote  his  head  from  oft'  him,    And  cast  it  on  the  sand, 
Thus  had  that  wrathful  boatman    His  death  from  Hagen's  hand. 

Even  as  Von  Troneg  Hagen    The  wrathful  boatman  slew, 

The  boat  whirl'd  round  to  the  river,    He  had  work  enough  to  do; 

Or  ever  he  turn'd  it  shorewards,    To  weary  he  began, 

But  kept  full  stoutly  rowing,    The  bold  King  Gunther's  man. 


340 


MISCELLANIES. 


He  wheel'd  it  back,  brave  Hagen,    With  many  a  lusty  stroke, 
The  strong  oar,  with  such  rowing,    In  his  hand  asunder  broke; 
He  fain  would  reach  the  Recken,    All  waiting  on  the  shore, 
No  tackle  now  he  had;  Hei,1  how  deftly  he  spliced  the  oar, 

With  thong  from  off  his  buckler!    It  was  a  slender  band; 
Right  over  against  a  forest    He  drove  the  boat  to  land; 
Where  Gunther's  Recken  waited,    In  crowds  along  the  beach; 
Full  many  a  goodly  hero    Moved  down  his  boat  to  reach. 

Hagen  ferries  them  over  himself  '  into  the  unknown  land,' 
like  a  right  yare  steersman  ;  yet  ever  brooding  fiercely  on 
that  prediction  of  the  wild  Mer-woman,  which  had  outdone 
even  his  own  dark  forebodings.  Seeing  the  Chaplain,  who 
alone  of  them  all  was  to  return,  standing  in  the  boat  beside 
his  chappelsoume  (pyxes  and  other  sacred  furniture),  he  de- 
termines to  belie  at  least  this  part  of  the  prophecy,  and  on 
a  sudden  hurls  the  chaplain  overboard.  Nay  as  the  poor 
priest  swims  after  the  boat,  he  pushes  him  down,  regardless 
of  all  remonstrance,  resolved  that  he  shall  die.  Neverthe- 
less it  proved  not  so  :  the  chaplain  made  for  the  other  side  ; 
when  his  strength  failed,  '  then  God's  hand  helped  him,' 
and  at  length  he  reached  the  shore.  Thus  does  the  stern 
truth  stand  revealed  to  Hagen,  by  the  very  means  he  took 
for  eluding  it :  '  he  thought  with  himself  these  Recken  must 
all  lose  their  lives.'  From  this  time,  a  grim  reckless  spirit 
takes  possession  of  him  ;  a  courage,  an  audacity,  waxing 
more  and  more  into  the  fixed  strength  of  desperation.  The 
passage  once  finished,  he  dashes  the  boat  in  pieces,  and 
casts  it  in  the  stream,  greatly  as  the  others  wonder  at  him. 

"  Why  do  ye  this,  good  brother?  "    Said  the  Ritter  Dankwart  then; 
"  How  shall  we  cross  this  river,    When  the  road  we  come  again? 

1  These  apparently  insignificant  circumstances,  down  even  to  mending 
the  oar  from  his  shield,  are  preserved  with  a  singular  fidelity  in  the  most 
distorted  editions  of  the  Tale:  see,  for  example,  the  Danish  ballad,  Lady 
Grimhild's  Wrack  (translated  in  the  Northern  Antiquities,  p.  275,  by  Mr. 
Jamieson).  This  '  Hei !  '  is  a  brisk  interjection,  whereby  the  worthy  old 
Singer  now  and  then  introduces  his  own  person,  when  anything  very  emi- 
nent is  going  forward. 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


341 


Returning  home  from  Hunland,    Here  must  we  lingering  stay?  "  — 
Not  then  did  Hagen  teH'hira    That  return  no  more  could  they. 

In  this  shipment  '  into  the  unknown  land,'  there  lies,  for 
the  more  penetrating  sort  of  commentators,  some  hidden 
meaning  and  allusion.  The  destruction  of  the  unreturning 
Ship,  as  of  the  Ship  Argo,  of  -ZEneas's  Ships,  and  the  like, 
is  a  constant  feature  of  such  traditions  :  it  is  thought,  this 
ferrying  of  the  Nibelungen  has  a  reference  to  old  Scandina- 
vian Mythuses ;  nay,  to  the  oldest,  most  universal  emblems 
shaped  out  by  man's  Imagination ;  Hagen  the  ferryman 
being,  in  some  sort,  a  type  of  Death,  who  ferries  over  his 
thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  into  a  Land  still  more 
unknown.1 

But  leaving  these  considerations,  let  us  remark  the  deep 
fearful  interest,  which,  in  gathering  strength,  rises  to  a  really 
tragical  height  in  the  close  of  this  Poem.  Strangely  has 
the  old  Singer,  in  these  his  loose  melodies,  modulated  the 
wild  narrative  into  a  poetic  whole,  with  what  we  might  call 
true  art,  were  it  not  rather  an  instinct  of  genius  still  more 
unerring.  A  fateful  gloom  now  hangs  over  the  fortunes  of 
the  Nibelungen,  which  deepens  and  deepens  as  they  march 
onwards  to  the  judgment-bar,  till  all  are  engulfed  in  utter 
night. 

Hagen  himself  rises  in  tragic  greatness  ;  so  helpful,  so 
prompt  and  strong  is  he,  and  true  to  the  death,  though  with- 
out hope.  If  sin  can  ever  be  pardoned,  then  that  one  act  of 
his  is  pardonable  ;  by  loyal  faith,  by  free  daring  and  heroic 
constancy,  he  has  made  amends  for  it.  Well  does  he  know 
what  is  coming ;  yet  he  goes  forth  to  meet  it,  offers  to  Ruin 
his  sullen  welcome.  Warnings  thicken  on  him,  which  he 
treats  lightly,  as  things  now  superfluous.  Spite  of  our  love 
for  Siegfried,  we  must  pity  and  almost  respect  the  lost  Ha- 
gen, now  in  his  extreme  need,  and  fronting  it  so  nobly. 
'  Mixed  was  his  hair  with  a  gray  colour,  his  limbs  strong, 
'  and  threatening  his  look.'  Nay,  his  sterner  qualities  are 
1  See  Von  der  Hagen' s  Nibelungen  ihre  Bedeutung,  &c. 


342 


MISCELLANIES. 


beautifully  tempered  by  another  feeling,  of  which  till  now 
we  understood  not  that  he  was  capable,  —  the  feeling  of 
friendship.  There  is  a  certain  Volker  of  Alsace  here  intro- 
duced, not  for  the  first  time,  yet  first  in  decided  energy,  who 
is  more  to  Hagen  than  a  brother.  This  Volker,  a  courtier 
and  noble,  is  also  a  Spielmann  (minstrel),  a  Fidelere  gut 
(fiddler  good)  ;  and  surely  the  prince  of  all  Fideleres  ;  in 
truth  a  very  phoenix,  melodious  as  the  soft  nightingale,  yet 
strong  as  the  royal  eagle :  for  also  in  the  brunt  of  battle  he 
can  play  tunes  ;  and,  with  a  Steel  Fiddlebow,  beats  strange 
music  from  the  cleft  helmets  of  his  enemies.  There  is,  in 
this  continual  allusion  to  Volker's  Schwert-jidelbogen  (Sword- 
fiddlebow),  as  rude  as  it  sounds  to  us,  a  barbaric  greatness 
and  depth  ;  the  light  minstrel  of  kingly  and  queenly  halls 
is  gay  also  in  the  storm  of  Fate,  its  dire  rushing  pipes  and 
whistles  to  him  :  is  he  not  the  image  of  every  brave  man 
fighting  with  Necessity,  be  that  duel  when  and  where  it  may ; 
smiting  the  fiend  with  giant  strokes,  yet  every  stroke  musical? 
—  This  Volker  and  Hagen  are  united  inseparably,  and  defy 
death  together.  '  Whatever  Volker  said  pleased  Hagen  ; 
whatever  Hagen  did  pleased  Volker.' 

But  into  these  last  Ten  Aventiures,  almost  like  the  image 
of  a  Doomsday,  we  must  hardly  glance  at  present.  Seldom, 
perhaps,  in  the  poetry  of  that  or  any  other  age,  has  a  grander 
scene  of  pity  and  terror  been  exhibited  than  here",  could  we 
look  into  it  clearly.  At  every  new  step  new  shapes  of  fear 
arise.  Dietrich  of  Bern  meets  the  Nibelungen  on  their  way, 
with  ominous  warnings  :  but  warnings,  as  we  said,  are  now 
superfluous,  when  the  evil  itself  is  apparent  and  inevitable. 
Chriemhild,  wasted  and  exasperated  here  into  a  frightful 
Medea,  openly  threatens  Hagen,  but  is  openly  defied  by  him  ; 
he  and  Volker  retire  to  a  seat  before  her  palace,  and  sit 
there,  while  she  advances  in  angry  tears,  with  a  crowd  of 
armed  Huns,  to  destroy  them.  But  Hagen  has  Siegfried's 
Balmung  lying  naked  on  his  knee,  the  Minstrel  also  has 
drawn  his  keen  Fiddlebow,  and  the  Huns  dare  not  provoke 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


343 


the  battle.  Chriemhild  would  fain  single  out  Hagen  for 
vengeance  ;  but  Hagen,  like  other  men,  stands  not  alone  5 
and  sin  is  an  infection  which  will  not  rest  with  one  victim. 
Partakers  or  not  of  his  crime,  the  others  also  must  share 
his  punishment.  Singularly  touching,  in  the  mean  while,  is 
King  Etzel's  ignorance,  of  what  every  one  else  understands 
too  well ;  and  how,  in  peaceful  hospitable  spirit,  he  exerts 
himself  to  testify  his  joy  over  these  royal  guests  of  his,  who 
are  bidden  hither  for  far  other  ends.  That  night  the  way- 
worn Nibelungen  are  sumptuously  lodged  ;  yet  Hagen  and 
Volker  see  good  to  keep  watch  :  Volker  plays  them  to  sleep : 
'  under  the  porch  of  the  house  he  sat  on  the  stone  :  bolder 
'  fiddler  was  there  never  any ;  when  the  tones  flowed  so 
'  sweetly,  they  all  gave  him  thanks.  Then  sounded  his 
'  strings  till  all  the  house  rang ;  his  strength  and  the  art 
1  were  great ;  sweeter  and  sweeter  he  began  to  play,  till 
t  flitted  forth  from  him  into  sleep  full  many  a  careworn 
soul.'  It  was  their  last  lullaby  ;  they  were  to  sleep  no  more. 
Armed  men  appear,  but  suddenly  vanish,  in  the  night ;  as- 
sassins sent  by  Chriemhild,  expecting  no  sentinel :  it  is  plain 
that  the  last  hour  draws  nigh. 

In  the  morning  the  Nibelungen  are  for  the  Minster  to 
hear  mass  ;  they  are  putting  on  gay  raiment ;  but  Hagen 
tells  them  a  different  tale  :  ' "  ye  must  take  other  garments, 
'  Recken  ;  instead  of  silk  shirts  hauberks,  for  rich  mantles 
'  your  good  shields  :  and,  beloved  masters,  moreover  squires 
'  and  men,  ye  shall  full  earnestly  go  to  the  church,  and  plain 
'  to  God  the  powerful  (  Got  dem  richen)  of  your  sorrow  and 
'  utmost  need ;  and  know  of  a  surety  that  death  for  us  is 
'  nigh."  '  In  Etzel's  Hall,  where  the  Nibelungen  appear  at 
the  royal  feast  in  complete  armour,  the  Strife,  incited  by 
Chriemhild,  begins ;  the  first  answer  to  her  provocation  is 
from  Hagen,  who  hews  off  the  head  of  her  own  and  Etzel's 
son,  making  it  bound  into  the  mother's  bosom  :  '  then  began 
among  the  Recken,  a  murder  grim  and  great.'  Dietrich, 
with  a  voice  of  preternatural  power,  commands  pause  ;  re- 


344 


MISCELLANIES. 


tires  with  Etzel  and  Chriemhild ;  and  now  the  bloody  work 
has  free  course.  We  have  heard  of  battles,  and  massacres, 
and  deadly  struggles  in  siege  and  storm ;  but  seldom  has 
even  the  poet's  imagination  pictured  anything  so  fierce  and 
terrible  as  this.  Host  after  host,  as  they  enter  that  huge 
vaulted  Hall,  perish  in  conflict  with  the  doomed  Nibelungen  ; 
and  ever  after  the  terrific  uproar,  ensues  a  still  more  terrific 
silence.  All  night,  and  through  morning  it  lasts.  They 
throw  the  dead  from  the  windows ;  blood  runs  like  water ; 
the  Hall  is  set  fire  to,  they  quench  it  with  blood,  their  own 
burning  thirst  they  slake  with  blood.  It  is  a  tumult  like  the 
Crack  of  Doom,  a  thousand-voiced,  wild-stunning  hubbub  ; 
and,  frightful  like  a  Trump  of  Doom,  the  Sword-fiddlebow 
of  Volker,  who  guards  the  door,  makes  music  to  that  death- 
dance.  Nor  are  traits  of  heroism  wanting,  and  thrilling 
tones  of  pity  and  love  ;  as  in  that  act  of  Rudiger,  Etzel's 
and  Chriemhild's  champion,  who,  bound  by  oath,  '  lays  his 
soul  in  God's  hand,'  and  enters  that  Golgotha  to  die  fighting 
against  his  friends  ;  yet  first  changes  shields  with  Hagen, 
whose  own,  also  given  him  by  Rudiger  in  a  far  other  hour, 
had  been  shattered  in  the  fight.  '  When  he  so  lovingly  bade 
'  give  him  the  shield,  there  were  eyes  enough  red  with  hot 
'  tears  ;  it  was  the  last  gift  which  Rudiger  of  Bechelaren 
'  gave  to  any  Recke.  As  grim  as  Hagen  was,  and  as  hard 
'  of  mind,  he  wept  at  this  gift  which  the  hero  good,  so  near 
'  his  last  times,  had  given  him  ;  full  many  a  noble  Ritter 
'  began  to  weep.' 

At  last  Volker  is  slain  ;  they  are  all  slain,  save  only  Ha- 
gen and  Gunther,  faint  and  wounded,  yet  still  unconquered 
among  the  bodies  of  the  dead.  Dietrich  the  wary,  though 
strong  and  invincible,  whose  Recken  too,  except  old  Hilde- 
brand,  he  now  finds  are  all  killed,  though  he  had  charged 
them  strictly  not  to  mix  in  the  quarrel,  at  last  arms  himself 
to  finish  it.  He  subdues  the  two  wearied  Nibelungen,  binds 
them,  delivers  them  to  Chriemhild  ;  '  and  Herr  Dietrich  went 
'  away  with  weeping  eyes,  worthily  from  the  heroes.'  These 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


345 


never  saw  each  other  more.  Chriemhild  demands  of  Hagen, 
Where  the  Nibelungen  Hoard  is  ?  But  he  answers  her,  that  he 
has  sworn  never  to  disclose  it,  while  any  of  her  brothers  live. 
"  I  bring  it  to  an  end,"  said  the  infuriated  woman  ;  orders 
her  brother's  head  to  be  struck  off,  and  holds  it  up  to  Hagen. 
'  "  Thou  hast  it  now  according  to  thy  will,"  said  Hagen  ; 
* "  of  the  Hoard  knoweth  none  but  God  and  I ;  from  thee, 
'  she-devil  (valendinne),  shall  it  forever  be  hid."  '  She  kills 
him  with  his  own  sword,  once  her  husband's  ;  and  is  herself 
struck  dead  by  Hildebrand,  indignant  at  the  woe  she  has 
wrought ;  King  Etzel,  there  present,  not  opposing  the  deed. 
Whereupon  the  curtain  drops  over  that  wild  scene  :  '  the  full 
1  highly  honoured  were  lying  dead  ;  the  people  all  had  sor- 
'  row  and  lamentation  ;  in  grief  had  the  king's  feast  ended, 
'  as  all  love  is  wont  to  do  : ' 

Ine  chart  iu  nichi  bescheiden    Waz  sider  da  geschach, 
Wan  rilter  unde  wrovven     Weinen  man  do  sac/i, 
Dar-zua  die  edeln  chnechte    Ir  Utben  vriunde  tot: 
Da  hat  das  mare  ein  ende  ;    Diz  1st  der  Nibelunge  not. 

I  cannot  say  you  now    What  hath  befallen  since; 

The  women  all  were  weeping,    And  the  Hitters  and  the  prince, 

Also  the  noble  squires,    Their  dear  friends  lying  dead: 

Here  hath  the  story  ending;    This  is  the  Nibelungen' $  Need. 

We  have  now  finished  our  slight  analysis  of  this  Poem  ; 
and  hope  that  readers,  who  are  curious  in  this  matter,  and 
ask  themselves,  What  is  the  Nibelungen  ?  may  have  here 
found  some  outlines  of  an  answer,  some  help  towards  farther 
researches  of  their  own.  To  such  readers  another  question 
will  suggest  itself :  Whence  this  singular  production  comes 
to  us,  When  and  How  it  originated  ?  On  which  point  also, 
what  little  light  our  investigation  has  yielded  may  be  sum- 
marily given. 

The  worthy  Von  der  Hagen,  who  may  well  understand 
the  Nibelungen  better  than  any  other  man,  having  rendered 
it  into  the  modern  tongue,  and  twice  edited  it  in  the  original, 
not  without  collating  some  eleven  manuscripts,  and  travelling 


346 


MISCELLANIES. 


several  thousands  of  miles  to  make  the  last  edition  perfect,  — 
writes  a  Book  some  years  ago,  rather  boldly  denominated 
The  Nibelungen,  its  Meaning  for  the  present  and  forever ; 
wherein,  not  content  with  any  measurable  antiquity  of  cen- 
turies, he  would  fain  claim  an  antiquity  beyond  all  bounds 
of  dated  time.  Working  his  way  with  feeble  mine-lamps  of 
etymology  and  the  like,  he  traces  back  the  rudiments  of  his 
beloved  Nibelungen,  '  to  which  the  flower  of  his  whole  life 
has  been  consecrated,'  into  the  thick  darkness  of  the  Scandi- 
navian Niflheim  and  Muspelheim,  and  the  Hindoo  Cosmog- 
ony ;  connecting  it  farther  (as  already  in  part  we  have  in- 
cidentally pointed  out)  with  the  Ship  Argo,  with  Jupiter's 
goatskin  iEgis,  the  fire-creed  of  Zerdusht,  and  even  with  the 
heavenly  Constellations.  His  reasoning  is  somewhat  ab- 
struse ;  yet  an  honest  zeal,  very  considerable  learning  and 
intellectual  force  bring  him  tolerably  through.  So  much  he 
renders  plausible  or  probable  :  that  in  the  Nibelungen,  under 
more  or  less  defacement,  lie  fragments,  scattered  like  mys- 
terious Runes,  yet  still  in  part  decipherable,  of  the  earliest 
Thoughts  of  men  ;  that  the  fiction  of  the  Nibelungen  was 
at  first  a  religious  or  philosophical  Mythus ;  and  only  in 
later  ages,  incorporating  itself  more  or  less  completely  with 
vague  traditions  of  real  events,  took  the  form  of  a  story,  or 
mere  Narrative  of  earthly  transactions  ;  in  which  last  form, 
moreover,  our  actual  Nibelungen  Lied  is  nowise  the  original 
Narrative,  but  the  second,  or  even  the  third  redaction  of  one 
much  earlier. 

At  what  particular  era  the  primeval  fiction  of  the  Nibe- 
lungen passed  from  its  Mythological  into  its  Historical  shape ; 
and  the  obscure  spiritual  elements  of  it  wedded  themselves 
to  the  obscure  remembrances  of  the  Northern  Immigrations ; 
and  the  Twelve  Signs  of  the  Zodiac  became  Twelve  Cham- 
pions of  Attila's  Wife,  —  there  is  no  fixing  with  the  smallest 
certainty.  It  is  known  from  history  that  Eginhart,  the  sec- 
retary of  Charlemagne,  compiled,  by  order  of  that  monarch, 
a  collection  of  the  ancient  German  Songs  ;  among  which,  it 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


347 


is  fondly  believed  by^  antiquaries,  this  Nibelungen  (not  in- 
deed our  actual  Nibelungen  Lied,  yet  an  older  one  of  similar 
purport),  and  the  main  traditions  of  the  Heldenbuch  con- 
nected therewith,  may  have  had  honourable  place.  Un- 
luckily Eginhart's  Collection  has  quite  perished,  and  only 
his  Life  of  the  Great  .Charles,  in  which  this  circumstance 
stands  noted,  survives  to  provoke  curiosity.  One  thing  is 
certain,  Fulco,  Archbishop  of  Rheims,  in  the  year  885,  is  in- 
troduced as  '  citing  certain  German  books,'  to  enforce  some 
argument  of  his  by  instance  of  '  King  Ermerich's  crime  tow- 
ard his  relations ; '  which  King  Ermerich  and  his  crime  are 
at  this  day  part  and  parcel  of  the  '  Cycle  of  German  Fic- 
tion/ and  presupposed  in  the  Nibelungen.1  Later  notices,  of 
a  more  decisive  sort,  occur  in  abundance.  Saxo  Grammati- 
cus,  who  flourished  in  the  twelfth  century,  relates  that  about 
the  year  1130,  a  Saxon  minstrel  being  sent  to  Seeland,  with 
a  treacherous  invitation  from  one  royal  Dane  to  another  ; 
and  not  daring  to  violate  his  oath,  yet  compassionating  the 
victim,  sang  to  him  by  way  of  indirect  warning  '  the  Song 
of  Chriemhild's  Treachery  to  her  Brothers  ; '  that  is  to  say, 
the  latter  portion  of  the  Story  which  we  still  read  at  greater 
length  in  the  existing  Nibelungen  Lied.  To  which  direct 
evidence,  that  these  traditions  were  universally  known  in  the 
twelfth  century,  nay  had  been  in  some  shape  committed  to 
writing,  as  '  German  Books,'  in  the  ninth  or  rather  in  the 
eighth,  —  we  have  still  to  add  the  probability  of  their  being 
'  ancient  songs,'  even  at  that  earliest  date  ;  all  which  may 
perhaps  carry  us  back  into  the  seventh  or  even  sixth  cen- 
tury ;  yet  not  farther,  inasmuch  as  certain  of  the  poetic 
personages  that  figure  in  them  belong  historically  to  the 
fifth. 

Other  and  more  open  proof  of  antiquity  lies  in  the  fact, 
that  these  Traditions  are  so  universally  diffused.  There  are 
Danish  and  Icelandic  versions  of  them,  externally  more  or 
less  altered  and  distorted,  yet  substantially  real  copies,  pro- 

l  Von  der  Hagen's  Nibelungen,  Einleitung,  §  vii. 


348 


MISCELLANIES. 


fessing  indeed  to  be  borrowed  from  the  German  ;  in  particu- 
lar we  have  the  Niflinga  and  the  Wilkina  Saga,  composed  in 
the  thirteenth  century,  which  still  in  many  ways  illustrate 
the  German  original.  Innumerable  other  songs  and  sagas 
point  more  remotely  in  the  same  direction.  Nay,  as  Von 
der  Hagen  informs  us,  certain  rhymed  tales,  founded  on 
these  old  adventures,  have  been  recovered  from  popular  reci- 
tation, in  the  Faroe  Islands,  within  these  few  years. 

If  we  ask  now,  What  lineaments  of  Fact  still  exist  in 
these  Traditions ;  what  are  the  Historical  events  and  per- 
sons which  our  primeval  Mythuses  have  here  united  with, 
and  so  strangely  metamorphosed  ?  the  answer  is  unsatisfac- 
tory enough.  The  great  Northern  Immigrations,  unspeakably 
momentous  and  glorious  as  they  were  for  the  Germans,  have 
wellnigh  faded  away  utterly  from  all  vernacular  records. 
Some  traces,  nevertheless,  some  names  and  dim  shadows  of 
occurrences  in  that  grand  movement,  still  linger  here  ;  which, 
in  such  circumstances,  we  gather  with  avidity.  There  can 
be  no  doubt,  for  example,  but  this  '  Etzel,  king  of  Hunland,' 
is  the  Attila  of  history  ;  several  of  whose  real  achievements 
and  relations  are  faintly  yet  still  recognisably  pictured  forth 
in  these  Poems.  Thus  his  first  queen  is  named  Halke,  and 
in  the  Scandinavian  versions,  Herka  ;  which  last  (Erca)  is 
also  the  name  that  Priscus  gives  her,  in  the  well-known  ac- 
count of  his  Embassy  to  Attila.  Moreover,  it  is  on  his 
second  marriage,  which  had  in  fact  so  mysterious  and  tragi- 
cal a  character,  that  the  whole  catastrophe  of  the  Nibelungen 
turns.  It  is  true,  the  '  Scourge  of  God  '  plays  but  a  tame 
part  here  ;  however,  his  great  acts,  though  all  past,  are  still 
visible  in  their  fruits  :  besides,  it  is  on  the  Northern  or  Ger- 
man personages  that  the  tradition  chiefly  dwells. 

Taking  farther  into  account  the  general '  Cycle,'  or  System 
of  Northern  Tradition,  whereof  this  Nibvhmgen  is  the  centre 
and  keystone,  there  is,  as  indeed  we  saw  in  the  IlelJenbuch, 
a  certain  Kaiser  Ottnit  and  a  Dietrich  of  Bern ;  to  whom 
also  it  seems  unreasonable  to  deny  historical  existence.  This 


THE  XIBEIXXGEX  LIED. 


349 


Bern  (Verona),  as  well  as  the  Rabenschlachi  (Battle  of 
Ravenna),  is  continually  figuring  in  these  fictions ;  though 
whether  under  Ottnit  we  are  to  understand  Odoacer  the 
vanquished,  and  under  Dietrich  of  Bern  Theodoricus  Vero- 
nensis,  the  victor  both  at  Verona  and  Ravenna,  is  by  no 
means  so  indubitable.  Chronological  difliculties  stand  much 
in  the  way.  For  our  Dietrich  of  Bern,  as  we  saw  in  the 
Xibelungen,  is  represented  as  one  of  Etzel's  Champions  : 
now  Attila  died  about  the  year  450  ;  and  this  Ostrogoth 
Theodoric  did  not  fight  his  great  Battle  at  Verona  till  489  ; 
that  of  Ravenna,  which  was  followed  by  a  three  years'  siege* 
happening  next  year.  So  that  before  Dietrich  could  be- 
come Dietrich  of  Bern.  Etzel  had  been  gone  almost  half  a 
century  from  the  scene.  Startled  by  this  anachronism,  some 
commentators  have  fished  out  another  Theodoric.  eightv  years 
prior  to  him  of  Verona,  and  who  actually  served  in  Attila's 
hosts,  with  a  retinue  of  Goths  and  Germans ;  with  which 
new  Theodoric,  however,  the  old  Ottnit.  or  Odoacer,  of  the 
Heldenbuch  must,  in  his  turn,  part  company  :  whereby  the 
case  is  no  whit  mended.  Certain  it  seems,  in  the  mean  time, 
that  Dietrich,  which  signifies  Rich  in  People,  is  the  same 
name  which  in  Greek  becomes  Theodoricus  ;  for  at  first 
(as  in  Procopius)  this  very  Theodoricus  is  always  written 
Geitfeprt,  which  almost  exactly  corresponds  with  the  German 
sound.  But  such  are  the  inconsistencies  involved  in  both 
hypotheses,  that  we  are  forced  to  conclude  one  of  two  things  : 
either  that  the  Singers  of  those  old  Lays  were  little  versed 
in  the  niceties  of  History,  and  unambitious  of  passing  for 
authorities  therein ;  which  seems  a  remarkably  easy  conclu- 
sion :  or  else,  with  Lessing.  that  they  meant  some  quite  other 
series  of  persons  and  transactions,  some  Kaiser  Otto,  and  his 
two  Anti-Kaisers  (in  the  twelfth  century)  j  which,  from  what 
has  come  to  light  since  Lessing's  day.  seems  now  an  unten- 
able position. 

However,  as  concerns  the  Xibelungen.  the  most  remark- 
able coincidence,  if  genuine,  remains  yet  to  be  mentioned. 


350 


MISCELLANIES. 


'  Thwortz,'  a  Hungarian  Chronicler  (or  perhaps  Chronicle), 
of  we  know  not  what  authority,  relates,  '  that  Attila  left  his 
'  kingdom  to  his  two  sons  Chaba  and  Aladar,  the  former  by 
4  a  Grecian  mother,  the  latter  by  Kremheilch  (Chriemhild)  a 
'  German ;  that  Theodoric,  one  of  his  followers,  sowed  dis- 
'  sension  between  them  ;  and,  along  with  the  Teutonic  hosts, 
'  took  part  with  his  half-countryman  the  younger  son  ;  where- 
'  upon  rose  a  great  slaughter,  which  lasted  for  fifteen  days, 
'  and  terminated  in  the  defeat  of  Chaba  (the  Greek),  and  his 
'  flight  into  Asia.' 1  Could  we  but  put  faith  in  this  Thwortz, 
we  might  fancy  that  some  vague  rumour  of  that  Kremheilch 
tragedy,  swoln  by  the  way,  had  reached  the  German  ear 
and  imagination  ;  where,  gathering  round  older  Ideas  and 
Mythuses,  as  Matter  round  its  Spirit,  the  first  rude  form  of 
Chriemhilde 's  Revenge  and  the  Wreck  of  the  Nibelungen 
bodied  itself  forth  in  Song. 

Thus  any  historical  light  emitted  by  these  old  Fictions  is 
little  better  than  darkness  visible  ;  sufficient  at  most  to  indi- 
cate that  great  Northern  Immigrations,  and  wars  and  rumours 
of  war  have  been  ;  but  nowise  how  and  what  they  have 
been.  Scarcely  clearer  is  the  special  history  of  the  Fic- 
tions themselves;  where  they  were  first  put  together,  who 
have  been  their  successive  redactors  and  new-modellers. 
Von  der  Hagen,  as  we  said,  supposes  that  there  may  have 
been  three  several  series  of  such.  Two,  at  all  events,  are 
clearly  indicated.  In  their  pi'esent  shape,  we  have  internal 
evidence  that  none  of  these  poems  can  be  older  than  the 
twelfth  century ;  indeed,  great  part  of  the  Hero-book  can  be 
proved  to  be  considerably  later.  With  this  last  it  is  under- 
stood that  Wolfram  von  Esehenbach  and  Heinrich  von  Ofter- 
dingen,  two  singers  otherwise  noted  in  that  era,  were  largely 
concerned  ;  but  neither  is  there  any  demonstration  of  this 
vague  belief :  while  again,  in  regard  to  the  Author  of  our 

i  Weber  {Illustrations  of  Northern  Antiquities,  p.  39),  who  cites  Gbrres 
(Zeitung  fur  Einsiedltr)  as  his  authority. 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 


351 


actual  Nibelungen  not  so  much  as  a  plausible  conjecture  can 
be  formed. 

Some  vote  for  a  certain  Conrad  von  Wiirzburg  ;  others  for 
the  above-named  Eschenbach  and  Ofterdingen  ;  others  again 
for  Klingsohr  of  Ungerland,  a  minstrel  who  once  passed  for 
a  magician.  Against  all  and  each  of  which  hypotheses  there 
are  objections ;  and  for  none  of  them  the  smallest  conclusive 
evidence.  Who  this  gifted  singer  may  have  been,  only  in  so 
far  as  his  Work  itself  proves  that  there  was  but  One,  and  the 
style  points  to  the  latter  half  of  the  twelfth  century,  —  remains 
altogether  dark :  the  unwearied  Von  der  Hagen  himself,  after 
fullest  investigation,  gives  for  verdict,  '  we  know  it  not.'  Con- 
sidering the  high  worth  of  the  Nibelungen,  and  how  many 
feeble  balladmongers  of  that  Swabian  Era  have  transmitted 
us  their  names,  so  total  an  oblivion,  in  this  infinitely  more 
important  case,  may  seem  surprising.  But  those  Minnelieder 
(Love-songs)  and  Provencal  Madrigals  were  the  Court  Poe- 
try of  that  time,  and  gained  honour  in  high  places  ;  while  the 
old  National  Traditions  were  common  property  and  plebeian, 
and  to  sing  them  an  unrewarded  labour. 

Whoever  he  may  be,  let  him  have  our  gratitude,  our  love. 
Looking  back  with  a  farewell  glance,  over  that  wondrous  old 
Tale,  with  its  many-coloured  texture  '  of  joyances  and  high- 
tides,  of  weeping  and  of  woe,'  so  skilfully  yet  artlessly  knit 
up  into  a  whole,  we  cannot  but  repeat  that  a  true  epic  spirit 
lives  in  it ;  that  in  many  ways  it  has  meaning  and  charms  for 
us.  Not  only  as  the  oldest  Tradition  of  Modern  Europe,  does 
it  possess  a  high  antiquarian  interest ;  but  farther,  and  even 
in  the  shape  we  now  see  it  under,  unless  the  '  Epics  of  the 
Son  of  Fingal '  had  some  sort  of  authenticity,  it  is  our  oldest 
Poem  also  ;  the  earliest  product  of  these  New  Ages,  which 
on  its  own  merits,  both  in  form  and  essence,  can  be  named 
Poetical.  Considering  its  chivalrous,  romantic  tone,  it  may 
rank  as  a  piece  of  literary  composition,  perhaps  considerably 
higher  than  the  Spanish  Cid ;  taking  in  its  historical  signifi- 


352 


MISCELLANIES. 


cance,  and  deep  ramifications  into  the  remote  Time,  it  ranks 
indubitably  and  greatly  higher. 

It  has  been  called  a  Northern  Iliad;  but  except  in  the 
fact  that  both  poems  have  a  narrative  character,  and  both  sing 
'  the  destructive  rage '  of  men,  the  two  have  scarcely  any  sim- 
ilarity. The  Singer  of  the  Nibelungen  is  a  far  different  per- 
son from  Homer  ;  far  inferior  both  in  culture  and  in  genius. 
Nothing  of  the  glowing  imagery,  of  the  fierce  bursting  energy, 
of  the  mingled  fire  and  gloom,  that  dwell  in  the  old  Greek, 
makes  its  appearance  here.  The  German  Singer  is  compar- 
atively a  simple  nature  ;  has  never  penetrated  deep  into  life  ; 
never  '  questioned  Fate  ; '  or  struggled  with  fearful  mysteries  ; 
of  all  which  we  find  traces  in  Homer,  still  more  in  Shak- 
speare  ;  but  with  meek  believing  submission,  has  taken  the 
Universe  as  he  found  it  represented  to  him  ;  and  rejoices  with 
a  fine  childlike  gladness  in  the  mere  outward  shows  of  things. 
He  has  little  power  of  delineating  character  ;  perhaps  he  had 
no  decisive  vision  thereof.  His  persons  are  superficially  dis- 
tinguished, and  not  altogether  without  generic  difference  ;  but 
the  portraiture  is  imperfectly  brought  out ;  there  lay  no  true 
living  original  within  him.  He  has  little  Fancy  ;  we  find 
scarcely  one  or  two  similitudes  in  his  whole  Poem  ;  and  these 
one  or  two,  which  moreover  are  repeated,  betoken  no  special 
faculty  that  way.  He  speaks  of  the  '  moon  among  stars ; ' 
says  often,  of  sparks  struck  from  steel  armour  in  battle,  and 
so  forth,  that  they  were  wie  es  wehte  der  wind,  '  as  if  the  wind 
were  blowing  them.'  We  have  mentioned  Tasso  along  with 
him  ;  yet  neither  in  this  case  is  there  any  close  resemblance  ; 
the  light  playful  grace,  still  more  the  Italian  pomp  and  sunny 
luxuriance  of  Tasso  are  wanting  in  the  other.  His  are  hum- 
ble wood-notes  wild ;  no  nightingale's,  but  yet  a  sweet  sky- 
hidden  lark's.  In  all  the  rhetorical  gifts,  to  say  nothing 
of  rhetorical  attainments,  we  should  pronounce  him  even 
poor. 

Nevertheless,  a  noble  soul  he  must  have  been,  and  fur- 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED 


353 


nished  with  far  more^  essential  requisites  for  Poetry  than 
these  are  ;  namely,  with  the  heart  and  feeling  of  a  Poet. 
He  has  a  clear  eye  for  the  Beautiful  and  True ;  all  unites  it- 
self gracefully  and  compactly  in  his  imagination  :  it  is  strange 
with  what  careless  felicity  he  winds  his  way  in  that  complex 
Narrative,  and  be  the  subject  what  it  will,  comes  through 
it  unsullied,  and  with  a  smile.  His  great  strength  is  an  un- 
conscious instinctive  strength  ;  wherein  truly  lies  his  highest 
merit.  The  whole  spirit  of  Chivalry,  of  Love,  and  heroic 
Valour,  must  have  lived  in  him,  and  inspired  him.  Every- 
where he  shows  a  noble  Sensibility ;  the  sad  accents  of  part- 
ing friends,  the  lamentings  of  women,  the  high  daring  of  men, 
all  that  is  worthy  and  lovely  prolongs  itself  in  melodious 
echoes  through  his  heart.  A  true  old  Singer,  and  taught 
of  Nature  herself !  Neither  let  us  call  him  an  inglorious 
Milton,  since  now  he  is  no  longer  a  mute  one.  What  good 
were  it  that  the  four  or  five  Letters  composing  his  Name 
could  be  printed,  and  pronounced,  with  absolute  certainty  ? 
All  that  was  mortal  in  him  is  gone  utterly ;  of  his  life,  and 
its  environment,  as  of  the  bodily  tabernacle  he  dwelt  in,  the 
very  ashes  remain  not :  like  a  fair  heavenly  Apparition, 
which  indeed  he  ivas,  he  has  melted  into  air,  and  only  the 
Voice  he  uttered,  in  virtue  of  its  inspired  gift,  yet  lives  and 
will  live. 

To  the  Germans  this  Nibelungen  Song  is  naturally  an  ob- 
ject of  no  common  love  ;  neither  if  they  sometimes  overvalue 
it,  and  vague  antiquarian  wonder  is  more  common  than  just 
criticism,  should  the  fault  be  too  heavily  visited.  After  long 
ages  of  concealment,  they  have  found  it  in  the  remote  wilder- 
ness, still  standing  like  the  trunk  of  some  almost  antediluvian 
oak ;  nay  with  boughs  on  it  still  green,  after  all  the  wind 
and  weather  of  twelve  hundred  years.  To  many  a  patri- 
otic feeling,  which  lingers  fondly  in  solitary  places  of  the 
Past,  it  may  well  be  a  rallying-point,  and  '  Lovers'  Trysting- 
tree.' 

For  us  also  it  has  its  worth.    A  creation  from  the  old 
vol.  ii.  23 


354 


MISCELLANIES. 


ages,  still  bright  and  balmy,  if  we  visit  it ;  and  opening  into 
the  first  History  of  Europe,  of  Mankind.  Thus  all  is  not 
oblivion  ;  but  on  the  edge  of"  the  abyss,  that  separates  the 
Old  world  from  the  New,  there  hangs  a  fair  Rainbow-land ; 
which  also,  in  curious  repetitions  of  itself  {twice  over,  say  the 
critics),  as  it  were  in  a  secondary  and  even  a  ternary  reflex, 
sheds  some  feeble  twilight  far  into  the  deeps  of  the  primeval 
Time. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


355 


GERMAN  LITERATURE  OF  THE  FOURTEENTH 
AND  FIFTEENTH  CENTURIES.i 

[1831.] 

It  is  not  with  Herr  Soltau's  work,  and  its  merits  or  demerits, 
that  we  here  purpose  to  concern  ourselves.  The  old  Low- 
German  Apologue  was  already  familiar  under  many  shapes  ; 
in  versions  into  Latin,  English  and  all  modern  tongues :  if 
it  now  comes  before  our  German  friends  under  a  new  shape, 
and  they  can  read  it  not  only  in  Gottsched's  prosaic  Prose, 
and  Goethe's  poetic  Hexameters,  but  also  '  in  the  metre 
of  the  original,'  namely,  in  Doggerel ;  and  this,  as  would 
appear,  not  without  comfort,  for  it  is  '  the  second  edition  ; '  — 
doubtless  the  Germans  themselves  will  look  to  it,  will  direct 
Herr  Soltau  aright  in  his  praiseworthy  labours,  and,  with  all 
suitable  speed,  forward  him  from  his  second  edition  into  a 
third.  To  us  strangers  the  fact  is  chiefly  interesting,  as  an- 
other little  memento  of  the  indestructible  vitality  there  is  in 
worth,  however  rude  ;  and  to  stranger  Reviewers,  as  it  brings 
that  wondrous  old  Fiction,  with  so  much  else  that  holds  of  it, 
once  more  specifically  into  view. 

The  Apologue  of  Reynard  the  Pox  ranks  undoubtedly 
among  the  most  remarkable  Books,  not  only  as  a  German, 
but,  in  all  senses,  as  a  European  one  ;  and  yet  for  us  per- 
haps its  extrinsic,  historical  character  is  even  more  note- 
worthy than  its  intrinsic.    In  Literary  History  it  forms,  so 

i  Foreign  Quarterly  Review,  No.  16.  —  Reinecke  der  Fucks,  iiber- 
setzt  von  D.  W.  Soltau  (Reynard  the  Fox.  translated  by  D.  W.  Soltau). 
2d  edition,  8vo.  Luneburg,  1830. 


356 


MISCELLANIES. 


to  speak,  the  culminating  point,  or  highest  manifestation  of 
a  Tendency  which  had  ruled  the  two  prior  centuries :  ever 
downwards  from  the  last  of  the  Hohenstauffen  Emperors,  and 
the  end  of  their  Swabian  Era,  to  the  borders  of  the  Reforma- 
tion, rudiments  and  fibres  of  this  singular  Fable  are  seen, 
among  innumerable  kindred  things,  fashioning  themselves  to- 
gether ;  and  now,  after  three  other  centuries  of  actual  exist- 
ence, it  still  stands  visible  and  entire,  venerable  in  itself,  and 
the  enduring  memorial  of  much  that  has  proved  more  perish- 
able. Thus,  naturally  enough,  it  figures  as  the  representative 
of  a  whole  group  that  historically  cluster  round  it ;  in  studying 
its  significance,  we  study  that  of  a  whole  intellectual  period. 

As  this  section  of  German  Literature  closely  connects  it- 
self with  the  corresponding  section  of  European  Literature, 
and  indeed  offers  an  expressive,  characteristic  epitome  there- 
of, some  insight  into  it,  were  such  easily  procurable,  might 
not  be  without  profit.  No  Literary  Historian  that  we  know 
of,  least  of  all  any  in  England,  having  looked  much  in  this 
direction,  either  as  concerned  Germany  or  other  countries, 
whereby  a  long  space  of  time,  once  busy  enough  and  full  of 
life,  now  lies  barren  and  void  in  men's  memories,  —  we  shall 
here  endeavour  to  present,  in  such  clearness  as  first  attempts 
may  admit,  the  result  of  some  slight  researches  of  our  own  in 
regard  to  it. 

The  Troubadour  Period  in  general  Literature,  to  which 
the  Swabian  Era  in  German  answers,  has,  especially  within 
the  last  generation,  attracted  inquiry  enough  ;  the  French 
have  their  Raynouards,  we  our  Webers,  the  Germans  their 
Haugs,  Graters,  Langs,  and  numerous  other  Collectors  and 
Translators  of  Minnelieder ;  among  whom  Ludwig  Tieck, 
the  foremost  in  far  other  provinces,  has  not  disdained  to  take 
the  lead.  We  shall  suppose  that  this  Literary  Period  is 
partially  known  to  all  readers.  Let  each  recall  whatever  he 
has  learned  or  figured  regarding  it;  represent  to  himself  that 
brave  young  heyday  of  Chivalry  and  Minstrelsy,  when  a 
stern  Barbarossa,  a  stern  Lion-heart,  sang  sirventes,  and 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


357 


with  the  hand  that  could  wield  the  sword  and  sceptre  twanged 
the  melodious  strings  ?  when  knights-errant  tilted,  and  ladies' 
eyes  rained  bright  influences ;  and  suddenly,  as  at  sunrise, 
the  whole  Earth  had  grown  vocal  and  musical.  Then  truly 
was  the  time  of  singing  come  ;  for  princes  and  prelates,  em- 
perors and  squires,  the  wise  and  the  simple,  men,  women 
and  children,  all  sang  and  rhymed,  or  delighted  in  hearing  it 
done.  It  was  a  universal  noise  of  Song  ;  as  if  the  Spring  of 
Manhood  had  arrived,  and  warblings  from  every  spray,  not 
indeed  without  infinite  twitterings  also,  which,  except  their 
gladness,  had  no  music,  were  bidding  it  welcome.  This  was 
the  Swabian  Era  ;  justly  reckoned  not  only  superior  to  ail 
preceding  eras,  but  properly  the  First  Era  of  German  Litera- 
ture. Poetry  had  at  length  found  a  home  in  the  life  of  men  ; 
and  every  pure  soul  was  inspired  by  it ;  and  in  words,  or 
still  better,  in  actions,  strove  to  give  it  utterance.  '  Be- 
'  lievers,'  says  Tieck,  '  sang  of  Faith ;  Lovers  of  Love  ; 
'  Knights  described  knightly  actions  and  battles  ;  and  loving, 
'believing  knights  were  their  chief  audience.  The  Spring, 
'  Beauty,  Gaiety,  were  objects  that  could  never  tire  ;  great 
'  duels  and  deeds  of  arms  carried  away  every  hearer,  the 
'  more  surely  the  stronger  they  were  painted  ;  and  as  the 
'pillars  and  dome  of  the  Church  encircled  the  flock,  so  did 
Religion,  as  the  Highest,  encircle  Poetry  and  Reality ;  and 
'every  heart,  in  equal  love,  humbled  itself  before  her.'1 

Let  the  reader,  we  say,  fancy  all  this,  and  moreover  that, 
as  earthly  things  do,  it  is  all  passing  away.  And  now,  from 
this  extreme  verge  of  the  Swabian  Era,  let  us  look  forward 
into  the  inane  of  the  next  two  centuries,  and  see  whether 
there  also  some  shadows  and  dim  forms,  significant  in  their 
kind,  may  not  begin  to  grow  visible.  Already,  as  above 
indicated,  Reineche  de  Fos  rises  clear  in  the  distance,  as  the 
goal  of  our  survey  :  let  us  now,  restricting  ourselves  to  the 
German  aspects  of  the  matter,  examine  what  may  lie  be- 
tween. 

1  Mlnnelieder  aus  dem  Schwcibiscken  Zeitalter.    (Vorrede,  x.) 


358 


MISCELLANIES. 


Conrad  the  Fourth,  who  died  in  1254,  was  the  last  of  the 
Swabian  Emperors ;  and  Conradin  his  son,  grasping  too 
early  at  a  Southern  Crown,  perished  on  the  scaffold  at  Na- 
ples in  1268  ;  with  which  stripling,  more  fortunate  in  song 
than  in  war,  and  whose  death,  or  murder,  with  fourteen  years 
of  other  cruelty,  the  Sicilian  Vespers  so  frightfully  avenged, 
the  imperial  line  of  the  Hohenstauffen  came  to  an  end.  Their 
House,  as  we  have  seen,  gives  name  to  a  Literary  Era  ;  and 
truly,  if  dates  alone  were  regarded,  we  might  reckon  it  much 
more  than  a  name.  For  with  this  change  of  dynasty,  a  great 
change  in  German  Literature  begins  to  indicate  itself ;  the  fall 
of  the  Hohenstauffen  is  close  followed  by  the  decay  of  Poetry  ; 
as  if  that  fair  flowerage  and  umbrage,  which  blossomed  far 
and  wide  round  the  Swabian  Family,  had  in  very  deed  de- 
pended on  it  for  growth  and  life ;  and  now,  the  stem  being 
felled,  the  leaves  also  were  languishing,  and  soon  to  wither  and 
drop  away.  Conradin,  as  his  father  and  his  grandfather  had 
been,  was  a  singer  ;  some  lines  of  his,  though  he  died  in  his 
sixteenth  year,  have  even  come  down  to  us  ;  but  henceforth 
no  crowned  poet,  except,  long  afterwards,  some  few  with 
cheap  laurel-crowns,  is  to  be  met  with :  the  Gay  Science  was 
visibly  declining.  In  such  times  as  now  came,  the  court  and 
the  great  could  no  longer  patronise  it ;  the  polity  of  the  Em- 
pire was,  by  one  convulsion  after  another,  all  but  utterly  dis- 
membered ;  ambitious  nobles,  a  sovereign  without  power ; 
contention,  violence,  distress,  everywhere  prevailing.  Richard 
of  Cornwall,  who  could  not  so  much  as  keep  hold  of  his  scep- 
tre, not  to  speak  of  swaying  it  wisely ;  or  even  the  brave 
Rudolf  of  Hapsburg,  who  manfully  accomplished  both  these 
duties,  had  other  work  to  do  than  sweet  singing.  Gay  Wars 
of  the  Wartburg  were  now  changed  to  stern  Battles  of  the 
Marchfeld ;  in  his  leisure  hours  a  good  Emperor,  instead  of 
twanging  harps,  must  hammer  from  his  helmet  the  dints  it 
had  got  in  his  working  and  fighting  hours.1    Amid  such  rude 

i  It  was  on  this  famous  plain  of  the  Marchfeld  that  Ottocar,  King  of 
Bohemia,  conquered  Bela  of  Hungary,  in  1260;  and  was  himself,  in  1278, 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


359 


tumults  the  Minne-Song  could  not  but  change  its  scene  and 
tone :  if,  indeed,  it  "continued  at  all,  which,  however,  it 
scarcely  did  ;  for  now,  no  longer  united  in  courtly  choir,  it 
seemed  to  lose  both  its  sweetness  and  its  force,  gradually  be- 
came mute,  or  in  remote  obscure  corners  lived  on,  feeble  and 
inaudible,  till  after  several  centuries,  when  under  a  new  title, 
and  with  far  inferior  claims,  it  again  solicits  some  notice 
from  us. 

Doubtless,  in  this  posture  of  affairs  political,  the  progress 
of  Literature  could  be  little  forwarded  from  without ;  in  some 
directions,  as  in  that  of  Court-Poetry,  we  may  admit  that  it 
was  obstructed  or  altogether  stopped.  But  why  not  only 
Court-Poetry,  but  Poetry  of  all  sorts  should  have  declined, 
and  as  it  were  gone  out,  is  quite  another  question ;  to  which, 
indeed,  as  men  must  have  their  theory  on  everything,  an- 
swer has  often  been  attempted,  but  only  with  partial  success. 
To  most  of  the  German  Literary  Historians  this  so  ungenial 
condition  of  the  Court  and  Government  appears  enough  :  by 
the  warlike,  altogether  practical  character  of  Rudolf,  by  the 
imbecile  ambition  of  his  successors,  by  the  general  prevalence 
of  feuds  and  lawless  disorder,  the  death  of  Poetry  seems  fully 
accounted  for.  In  which  conclusion  of  theirs,  allowing  all 
force  to  the  grounds  it  rests  on,  we  cannot  but  perceive  that 
there  lurks  some  fallacy :  the  fallacy  namely,  so  common 
in  these  times,  of  deducing  the  inward  and  spiritual  exclu- 
sively from  the  outward  and  material ;  of  tacitly,  perhaps 
unconsciously,  denying  all  independent  force,  or  even  life,  to 
the  former,  and  looking  out  for  the  secret  of  its  vicissitudes 
solely  in  some  circumstance  belonging  to  the  latter.  Now  it 
cannot  be  too  often  repeated,  where  it  continues  still  un- 
known or  forgotten,  that  man  has  a  soul  as  certainly  as  he 

conquered  and  slain  by  Rudolf  of  Hapsburg,  at  that  time  much  left  to  his 
own  resources;  whose  talent  for  mending  helmets,  however,  is  perhaps 
but  a  poetical  tradition.  Curious,  moreover:  it  was  here  again,  after 
more  than  five  centuries,  that  the  House  of  Hapsburg  received  its  worst 
overthrow,  and  from  a  new  and  greater  Rudolf,  namely,  from  Napoleon,  at 
Wagram,  which  lies  in  the  middle  of  this  same  Marchfeld. 


360 


MISCELLANIES. 


has  a  body  ;  nay,  much  more  certainly  ;  that  properly  it  is  the 
course  of  his  unseen,  spiritual  life,  which  informs  and  rules 
his  external  visible  life,  rather  than  receives  rule  from  it; 
in  which  spiritual  life,  indeed,  and  not  in  any  outward  action 
or  condition  arising  from  it,  the  true  secret  of  his  history  lies, 
and  is  to  be  sought  after,  and  indefinitely  approached.  Poetry 
above  all,  we  should  have  known  long  ago,  is  one  of  those 
mysterious  things  whose  origin  and  developments  never  can 
be  what  we  call  explained ;  often  it  seems  to  us  like  the 
wind,  blowing  where  it  lists,  coming  and  departing  with  little 
or  no  regard  to  any  the  most  cunning  theory  that  has  yet 
been  devised  of  it.  Least  of  all  does  it  seem  to  depend  on 
court-patronage,  the  form  of  government,  or  any  modification 
of  politics  or  economics,  catholic  as  these  influences  have  now 
become  in  our  philosophy  :  it  lives  in  a  snow-clad  sulphurous 
Iceland,  and  not  in  a  sunny  wine-growing  France ;  flourishes 
under  an  arbitrary  Elizabeth,  and  dies  out  under  a  constitu- 
tional George  ;  Philip  II.  has  his  Cervantes,  and  in  prison ; 
Washington  and  Jackson  have  only  their  Coopers  and 
Browns.  Why  did  Poetry  appear  so  brightly  after  the  Bat- 
tles of  Thermopylae  and  Salamis,  and  quite  turn  away  her 
face  and  wings  from  those  of  Lexington  and  Bunker's  Hill  ? 
We  answer,  the  Greeks  were  a  poetical  people,  the  Amer- 
icans are  not ;  that  is  to  say,  it  appeared  because  it  did  ap- 
pear !  On  the  whole,  we  could  desire  that  one  of  two  things 
should  happen  :  Either  that  our  theories  and  genetic  histories 
of  Poetry  should  henceforth  cease,  and  mankind  rest  satis- 
fied, once  for  all,  with  Dr.  Cabanis'  theory,  which  seems  to 
be  the  simplest,  that  '  Poetry  is  a  product  of  the  smaller 
intestines,'  and  must  be  cultivated  medically  by  the  exhibi- 
tion of  castor-oil :  Or  else  that,  in  future  speculations  of  this 
kind,  we  should  endeavour  to  start  with  some  recognition  of 
the  fact,  once  well  known,  and  still  in  words  admitted,  that 
Poetry  is  Inspiration  ;  has  in  it  a  certain  spirituality  and 
divinity  which  no  dissecting-knife  will  discover  ;  arises  in  the 
most  secret  and  most  sacred  region  of  man's  soul,  as  it  were 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


361 


in  our  Holy  of  Holies  ;  and  as  for  external  things,  depends 
only  on  such  as  can  operate  in  that  region  ;  among  which  it 
will  be  found  that  Acts  of  Parliament,  and  the  state  of  the 
Smithfield  Markets,  nowise  play  the  chief  part. 

With  regard  to  this  change  in  German  Literature  especially, 
it  is  to  be  remarked,  that  the  phenomenon  was  not  a  German, 
but  a  European  one  ;  whereby  we  easily  infer  so  much  at 
least,  that  the  roots  of  it  must  have  lain  deeper  than  in  any 
change  from  Hohenstauffen  Emperors  to  Hapsburg  ones. 
For  now  the  Troubadours  and  Trouveres,  as  well  as  the 
Minnesingers,  were  sinking  into  silence  ;  the  world  seems  to 
have  rhymed  itself  out ;  those  chivalrous  roundelays,  heroic 
tales,  mythologies,  and  quaint  love-sicknesses,  had  grown  un- 
profitable to  the  ear.  In  fact,  Chivalry  itself  was  in  the 
wane ;  and  with  it  that  gay  melody,  like  its  other  pomp. 
More  earnest  business,  not  sportfully,  but  with  harsh  en- 
deavour, was  now  to  be  done.  The  graceful  minuet-dance 
of  Fancy  must  give  place  to  the  toilsome,  thorny  pilgrimage 
of  Understanding.  Life  and  its  appurtenances  and  posses- 
sions, which  had  been  so  admired  and  besung,  now  disclosed, 
the  more  they  came  to  be  investigated,  the  more  contradic- 
tions. The  Church  no  longer  rose  with  .its  pillars,  '  like  a 
venerable  dome  over  the  united  flock ; '  but,  more  accurately 
seen  into,  was  a  strait  prison,  full  of  unclean  creeping  things  ; 
against  which  thraldom  all  better  spirits  could  not  but  mur- 
mur and  struggle.  Everywhere  greatness  and  littleness 
seemed  so  inexplicably  blended  :  Nature,  like  the  Sphinx, 
her  emblem,  with  her  fair  woman's  face  and  neck,  showed 
also  the  claws  of  a  lioness.  Now  too  her  Riddle  had  been 
propounded  ;  and  thousands  of  subtle,  disputatious  School- 
men were  striving  earnestly  to  rede  it,  that  they  might  live, 
morally  live,  that  the  monster  might  not  devour  them. 
These,  like  strong  swimmers,  in  boundless  bottomless  vor- 
tices of  Logic,  swam  manfully,  but  could  not  get  to  land. 

On  a  better  course,  yet  with  the  like  aim,  Physical  Science 
was  also  unfolding  itself.    A  Roger  Bacon,  an  Albert  the 


362 


MISCELLANIES. 


Great,  are  cheering  appearances  in  this  era  ;  not  blind  to  the 
greatness  of  Nature,  yet  no  longer  with  poetic  reverence  of 
her,  but  venturing  fearlessly  into  her  recesses,  and  extorting 
from  her  many  a  secret ;  the  first  victories  of  that  long  series 
which  is  to  make  man  more  and  more  her  King.  Thus 
everywhere  we  have  the  image  of  contest,  of  effort.  The 
spirit  of  man,  which  once,  in  peaceful,  loving  communion 
with  the  Universe,  had  uttered  forth  its  gladness  in  Song, 
now  feels  hampered  and  hemmed-in,  and  struggles  vehe- 
mently to  make  itself  room.  Power  is  the  one  thing  need- 
ful, and  that  Knowledge  which  is  Power :  thus  also  Intellect 
becomes  the  grand  faculty,  in  which  all  the  others  are  well- 
nigh  absorbed. 

Poetry,  which  has  been  defined  as  '  the  harmonious  unison 
of  Man  with  Nature,'  could  not  flourish  in  this  temper  of  the 
times.  The  number  of  poets,  or  rather  versifiers,  henceforth 
greatly  diminishes  ;  their  style  also,  and  topics,  are  different 
and  less  poetical.  Men  wish  to  be  practically  instructed 
rather  than  poetically  amused  :  Poetry  itself  must  assume  a 
preceptorial  character,  and  teach  wholesome  saws  and  moral 
maxims,  or  it  will  not  be  listened  to.  Singing  for  the  song's 
sake  is  now  nowhere  practised  ;  but  in  its  stead  there  is 
everywhere  the  jar  and  bustle  of  argument,  investigation, 
contentious  activity.  Such  throughout  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury is  the  general  aspect  of  mind  over  Europe.  In  Italy 
alone  is  there  a  splendid  exception  ;  the  mystic  song  of 
Dante,  with  its  stern  indignant  moral,  is  followed  by  the  light 
love-rhymes  of  Petrarch,  the  Troubadour  of  Italy,  when  this 
class  was  extinct  elsewhere :  the  master  minds  of  that  coun- 
try, peculiar  in  its  social  and  moral  condition,  still  more  in 
its  relations  to  classical  Antiquity,  pursue  a  course  of  their 
own.  But  only  the  master  minds ;  for  Italy  too  has  its 
Dialecticians,  and  projectors,  and  reformers  ;  nay,  after  Pe- 
trarch, these  take  the  lead  ;  and  there  as  elsewhere,  in  their 
discords  and  loud  assiduous  toil,  the  voice  of  Poetry  dies 
away. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


363 


To  search  out  the  causes  of  this  great  revolution,  which 
lie  not  in  Politics  nor  Statistics,  would  lead  us  far  beyond 
our  depth.  Meanwhile  let  us  remark  that  the  change  is 
nowise  to  be  considered  as  a  relapse,  or  fall  from  a  higher 
state  of  spiritual  culture  to  a  lower ;  but  rather,  so  far  as  we 
have  objects  to  compare  it  with,  as  a  quite  natural  progress 
and  higher  development  of  culture.  In  the  history  of  the 
universal  mind,  there  is  a  certain  analogy  to  that  of  the  in- 
dividual. Our  first  self-consciousness  is  the  first  revelation 
to  us  of  a  whole  universe,  wondrous  and  altogether  good ;  it 
is  a  feeling  of  joy  and  new-found  strength,  of  mysterious 
infinite  hope  and  capability  ;  and  in  all  men,  either  by  word 
or  act,  expresses  itself  poetically.  The  world  without  us  and 
within  us,  beshone  by  the  young  light  of  Love,  and  all  in- 
stinct with  a  divinity,  is  beautiful  and  great ;  it  seems  for  us 
a  boundless  happiness  that  we  are  privileged  to  live.  This 
is  the  season  of  generous  deeds  and  feelings ;  which  also,  on 
the  lips  of  the  gifted,  form  themselves  into  musical  utterance, 
and  give  spoken  poetry  as  well  as  acted.  Nothing  is  calcu- 
lated and  measured,  but  all  is  loved,  believed,  appropriated. 
All  action  is  spontaneous,  high  sentiment  a  sure,  imperish- 
able good ;  and  thus  the  youth  stands,  like  the  First  Man,  in 
his  fair  Garden,  giving  Names  to  the  bright  Appearances  of 
this  Universe  which  he  has  inherited,  and  rejoicing  in  it  as 
glorious  and  divine.  Erelong,  however,  comes  a  harsher 
time.  Under  the  first  beauty  of  man's  life  appears  an  in- 
finite, earnest  rigour :  high  sentiment  will  not  avail,  unless  it 
can  continue  to  be  translated  into  noble  action  ;  which  prob- 
lem, in  the  destiny  appointed  for  man  born  to  toil,  is  difficult, 
interminable,  capable  of  only  approximate  solution.  What 
flowed  softly  in  melodious  coherence  when  seen  and  sung 
from  a  distance,  proves  rugged  and  unmanageable  when 
practically  handled.  The  fervid,  lyrical  gladness  of  past 
years  gives  place  to  a  collected  thoughtfulness  and  energy ; 
nay  often,  —  so  painful,  so  unexpected  are  the  contradictions 
everywhere  met  with,  —  to  gloom,  sadness  and  anger ;  and 


364 


MISCELLANIES. 


not  till  after  long  struggles  and  hard-contested  victories  is  the 
youth  changed  into  a  man. 

Without  pushing  the  comparison  too  far,  we  may  say  that 
in  the  culture  of  the  European  mind,  or  in  Literature  which 
is  the  symbol  and  product  of  this,  a  certain  similarity  of  prog- 
ress is  manifested.  That  tuneful  Chivalry,  that  high  cheer- 
ful devotion  to  the  Godlike  in  heaven,  and  to  Women,  its 
emblems  on  earth;  those  Crusades  and  vernal  Love-songs 
were  the  heroic  doings  of  the  world's  youth ;  to  which  also 
a  corresponding  manhood  succeeded.  Poetic  recognition  is 
followed  by  scientific  examination  :  the  reign  of  Fancy,  with 
its  gay  images,  and  graceful,  capricious  sports,  has  ended; 
and  now  Understanding,  which  when  reunited  to  Poetry,  will 
one  day  become  Reason  and  a  nobler  Poetry,  has  to  do  its 
part.  Meantime,  while  there  is  no  such  union,  but  a  more 
and  more  widening  controversy,  prosaic  discord  and  the  un- 
musical sounds  of  labour  and  effort  are  alone  audible. 

The  era  of  the  Troubadours,  who  in  Germany  are  the 
Minnesingers,  gave  place  in  that  country,  as  in  all  others,  to 
a  period  which  we  might  name  the  Didactic  ;  for  Literature 
now  ceased  to  be  a  festal  melody,  and  addressing  itself  rather 
to  the  intellect  than  to  the  heart,  became  as  it  were  a  school- 
lesson.  Instead  of  that  cheerful,  warbling  Song  of  Love  and 
Devotion,  wherein  nothing  was  taught,  but  all  was  believed 
and  worshipped,  we  have  henceforth  only  wise  Apologues, 
Fables,  Satires,  Exhortations  and  all  manner  of  edifying 
Moralities.  Poetry,  indeed,  continued  still  to  be  the  form 
of  composition  for  all  that  can  be  named  Literature  ;  except 
Chroniclers,  and  others  of  that  genus,  valuable  not  as  doers 
of  the  work,  but  as  witnesses  of  the  work  done,  these 
Teachers  all  wrote  in  verse :  nevertheless,  in  general  there 
are  few  elements  of  Poetry  in  their  performances ;  the 
internal  structure  has  nothing  poetical,  is  a  mere  business- 
like prose :  in  the  rhyme  alone,  at  most  in  the  occasional 
graces  of  expression,  could  we  discover  that  it  reckoned 
itself  poetical.    In  fact,  we  may  say  that  Poetry,  in  the  old 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


365 


sense,  had  now  altogether  gone  out  of  sight :  instead  of  her 
heavenly  vesture  and  Ariel-harp,  she  had  put  on  earthly 
weeds,  and  walked  abroad  with  ferula  and  horn-book.  It 
was  long  before  this  new  guise  would  sit  well  on  her ;  only 
In  late  centuries  that  she  could  fashion  it  into  beauty,  and 
learn  to  move  with  it,  and  mount  with  it,  gracefully  as  of 
old. 

Looking  now  more  specially  to  our  historical  task,  if  we 
inquire  how  far  into  the  subsequent  time  this  Didactic  Period 
extended,  no  precise  answer  can  well  be  given.  On  this  side 
there  seem  no  positive  limits  to  it ;  with  many  superficial 
modifications,  the  same  fundamental  element  pervades  all 
spiritual  efforts  of  mankind  through  the  following  centuries. 
We  may  say  that  it  is  felt  even  in  the  Poetry  of  our  own 
time ;  nay,  must  be  felt  through  all  time ;  inasmuch  as  In- 
quiry once  awakened  cannot  fall  asleep,  or  exhaust  itself ; 
thus  Literature  must  continue  to  have  a  didactic  character ; 
and  the  Poet  of  these  days  is  he  who,  not  indeed  by  me- 
chanical but  by  poetical  methods,  can  instruct  us,  can  more 
and  more  evolve  for  us  the  mystery  of  our  Life.  However, 
after  a  certain  space,  this  Didactic  Spirit  in  Literature  can- 
not, as  a  historical  partition  and  landmark,  be  available  here. 
At  the  era  of  the  Reformation,  it  reaches  its  acme  ;  and,  in 
singular  shape,  steps  forth  on  the  high  places  of  Public 
Business,  and  amid  storms  and  thunder,  not  without  bright- 
ness and  true  fire  from  Heaven,  convulsively  renovates  the 
world.  This  is,  as  it  were,  the  apotheosis  of  the  Didactic 
Spirit,  where  it  first  attains  a  really  poetical  concentration, 
and  stimulates  mankind  into  heroism  of  word  and  of  action 
also.  Of  the  latter,  indeed,  still  more  than  of  the  former; 
for  not  till  a  much  more  recent  time,  almost  till  our  own 
time,  has  Inquiry  in  some  measure  again  reconciled  itself  to 
Belief ;  and  Poetry,  though  in  detached  tones,  arisen  on  us, 
as  a  true  musical  Wisdom.  Thus  is  the  deed,  in  certain  cir- 
cumstances, readier  and  greater  than  the  word :  Action 
strikes  fiery  light  from  the  rocks  it  has  to  hew  through ; 


366 


MISCELLANIES. 


Poetry  reposes  in  the  skyey  splendour  which  that  rough 
passage  has  led  to.  But  after  Luther's  day,  this  Didactic 
Tendency  again  sinks  to  a  lower  level ;  mingles  with  mani- 
fold other  tendencies  ;  among  which,  admitting  that  it  still 
forms  the  main  stream,  it  is  no  longer  so  preeminent,  positive 
and  universal,  as  properly  to  characterise  the  whole.  For 
minor  Periods  and  subvisions  in  Literary  History,  other 
more  superficial  characteristics  must,  from  time  to  time,  be 
fixed  on. 

Neither,  examining  the  other  limit  of  this  Period,  can  we 
say  specially  where  it  begins ;  for,  as  usual  in  these  things, 
it  begins  not  at  once,  but  by  degrees  :  Kings'  reigns  and 
changes  in  the  form  of  Government  have  their  day  and  date ; 
not  so  changes  in  the  spiritual  condition  of  a  people.  The 
Minnesinger  Period  and  the  Didactic  may  be  said  to  com- 
mingle, as  it  were,  to  overlap  each  other,  for  above  a  cen- 
tury :  some  writers  partially  belonging  to  the  latter  class 
occur  even  prior  to  the  times  of  Friedrich  II.  ;  and  a  certain 
echo  of  the  Minne-song  had  continued  down  to  Manesse's 
day,  under  Ludwig  the  Bavarian. 

Thus  from  the  Minnesingers  to  the  Church  Reformers  we 
have  a  wide  space  of  between  two  and  three  centuries ;  in 
which,  of  course,  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  do  more  than 
point  out  one  or  two  of  the  leading  appearances  ;  a  minute 
survey  and  exposition  being  foreign  from  our  object. 

Among  the  Minnesingers  themselves,  as  already  hinted, 
there  are  not  wanting  some  with  an  occasionally  didactic 
character :  Gottfried  of  Strasburg,  known  also  as  a  translator 
of  Sir  Tristrem,  and  two  other  Singers,  Reinmar  von  Zweter 
and  Walter  von  der  Vogelvveide,  are  noted  in  this  respect ; 
the  last  two  especially,  for  their  oblique  glances  at  the 
Pope  and  his  Monks,  the  unsound  condition  of  which  body 
could  not  escape  even  a  Love-minstrel's  eye.1  But  per- 
l  Reinmar  von  Zweter,  for  example,  says  once: 

liar  unci  bart  nach  kloslersilten  gesnilten 
Des  vind  ich  (/ennog, 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


367 


haps  the  special  step  of  transition  may  be  still  better 
marked  in  the  works' of  a  rhymer  named  the  Strieker, 
whose  province  was  the  epic,  or  narrative  ;  into  which  he 
seems  to  have  introduced  this  new  character  in  unusual 
measure.  As  the  Strieker  still  retains  some  shadow  of  a 
place  in  Literary  History,-  the  following  notice  of  him  may 
be  borrowed  here.  Of  his  personal  history,  it  may  be  pre- 
mised, nothing  whatever  is  known  ;  not  even  why  he  bears 
this  title ;  unless  it  be,  as  some  have  fancied,  that  Strieker, 

Ich  vinde  aber  der  nit  vil  dies  rehte  tragen  ; 

Halb  visch  halb  man  ist  visch  noch  man, 

Gar  visch  ist  visch,  gar  man  ist  man, 

Als  ich  erkennen  kan  : 

Von  hofmunchen  wad  von  khsterrittern 

Kan  ich  niht  gesagen  : 

Hofmunchen,  klosterrittern,  diesen  beiden 

Wok  ich  reht  ze  rehte  wol  bescheiden, 

Ob  sie  sich  woken  lassen  vinden, 

Da  sie  ze  rehte  solten  wesen  ; 

In  kloster  munche  solten  genesen, 

So  suln  des  hofs  sich  niter  unterwinden. 

Hair  and  beard  cut  in  the  cloister  fashion 
Of  this  I  find  enough, 

But  of  those  that  wear  it  well  I  find  not  many ; 
Half-fish  half-man  is  neither  fish  nor  man, 
Whole  fish  is  fish,  whole  man  is  man, 
As  1  discover  can : 

Of  court-monks  and  of  cloister-knights 
Can  I  not  speak : 

Court-monks,  cloister-knights,  these  both 

Would  1  rightly  put  to  rights, 

Whether  they  would  let  themselves  be  found 

Where  they  by  right  should  be ; 

In  their  cloister  monks  should  flourish. 

And  knights  obey  at  court. 

See  also  in  Flogel  (Geschichte  der  Komischen  Litteratur,  b.  iii.  s.  11). 
immediately  following  this  Extract,  a  formidable  dinner-course  of  Lies,  — 
boiled  lies,  roasted  lies,  lies  with  saffron,  forced-meat  lies,  and  other  varie- 
ties, arranged  by  this  same  artist;  —  farther  (in  page  9),  a  rather  gallant 
onslaught  from  Walter  von  der  Vogelweide,  on  the  Babest  (Pope,  Papst) 
himself.    All  this  was  before  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  century. 


368 


MISCELLANIES. 


which  now  signifies  Knitter,  in  those  days  meant  Schreiber 
(Writer)  : 

'  In  truth,'  says  Bouterwek,  '  this  painstaking  man  was  more  a 
writer  than  a  Poet,  yet  not  altogether  without  talent  in  that  latter 
way.  Voluminous  enough,  at  least,  is  his  redaction  of  an  older  epic 
work  on  the  War  of  Charlemagne  with  the  Saracens  in  Spain,  the  old 
German  original  of  which  is  perhaps  nothing  more  than  a  translation 
from  the  Latin  or  French.  Of  a  Poet  in  the  Strieker's  day,  when 
the  romantic  epos  had  attained  such  polish  among  the  Germans,  one 
might  have  expected  that  this  ancient  Fiction,  since  he  was  pleased  to 
remodel  it,  would  have  served  as  the  material  to  a  ne"w  poetic  crea- 
tion ;  or  at  least,  that  he  would  have  breathed  into  it  some  new  and 
more  poetic  spirit.  But  such  a  development  of  these  Charlemagne 
Fables  was  reserved  for  the  Italian  Poets.  The  Strieker  has  not  only 
left  the  matter  of  the  old  Tale  almost  unaltered,  but  has  even  brought 
out  its  unpoetical  lineaments  in  stronger  light.  The  fanatical  piety 
with  which  it  is  overloaded  probably  appeared  to  him  its  chief  merit. 
To  convert  these  castaway  Heathens,  or  failing  this,  to  annihilate 
them,  Charlemagne  takes  the  field.  Next  to  him,  the  hero  Poland 
plays  a  main  part  there.  Consultations  are  held,  ambassadors  ne- 
gotiate ;  war  breaks  out  with  all  its  terrors :  the  Heathen  fight 
stoutly  :  at  length  comes  the-  well-known  defeat  of  the  Franks  at 
Ronceval,  or  Roncevaux ;  where,  however,  the  Saracens  also  lose  so 
many  men,  that  their  King  Marsilies  dies  of  grief.  The  Narrative 
is  divided  into  chapters,  each  chapter  again  into  sections,  an  epitome 
of  which  is  always  given  at  the  outset.  Miracles  occur  in  the  story, 
but  for  most  part  only  such  as  tend  to  evince  how  God  himself  in- 
spirited the  Christians  against  the  Heathen.  Of  anything  like  free, 
bold  flights  of  imagination  there  is  little  to  be  met  with  :  the  higher 
features  of  the  genuine  romantic  epos  are  altogether  wanting.  In 
return,  it  has  a  certain  didactic  temper,  which,  indeed,  announces 
itself  even  in  the  Introduction.  The  latter,  it  should  be  added,  pre- 
possesses us  in  the  Poet's  favour  ;  testifying  with  what  warm  inter- 
est the  noble  and  great  in  man's  life  affected  him.' 1 

The  Wdlsche  Gast  (Italian  Guest)  of  Zirkler  or  Tirkeler, 
who  professes,  truly  or  not,  to  be  from  Friuli,  and,  as  a 
benevolent  stranger,  or  Guest,  tells  the  Germans  hard  truths 

1  Bouterwek,  ix.  245.  Other  versified  Narratives  by  this  worthy  Strieker 
still  exist,  but  for  the  most  part  only  in  manuscript.  Of  these  the  History 
of  Wilhelm  von  Blvmethal,  a  Round-table  adventurer,  appears  to  be  the 
principal.  The  Poem  on  Charlemagne  stands  printed  in  Schilter's  The- 
saurus ;  its  exact  date  is  matter  only  of  conjecture. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


369 


somewhat  in  the  spirit  of  Juvenal ;  even  the  famous  Meister 
Freidank  (Master  Freethought),  with  his  wise  Book  of 
rhymed  Maxims,  entitled  Die  Bescheidenheit  (Modesty)  ; 
still  more  the  sagacious  Tyro,  King  of  Scots,  quite  omitted 
in  history,  but  who  teaches  Friedebrand  his  Son,  with  some 
discrimination,  how  to  choose  a  good  priest ;  —  all  these,  with 
others  of  still  thinner  substance,  rise  before  us  only  as  faint 
shadows,  and  must  not  linger  in  our  field  of  vision.  Greatly 
the  most  important  figure  in  the  earlier  part  of  this  era  is 
Hugo  von  Trimberg,  to  whom  we  must  now  turn  ;  author  of 
various  poetico-preceptorial  works,  one  of  which,  named  the 
Renner  (Runner),  has  long  been  known  not  only  to  anti- 
quarians, but,  in  some  small  degree,  even  to  the  general 
reader.  Of  Hugo's  Biography  he  has  himself  incidentally 
communicated  somewhat.  His  surname  he  derives  from 
Trimberg,  his  birthplace,  a  village  on  the  Saale,  not  far  from 
Wurzburg,  in  Franconia.  By  profession  he  appears  to  have 
been  a  Schoolmaster:  in  the  conclusion  of  his  Renner,  he 
announces  that  '  he  kept  school  for  forty  years  at  Thurstadt, 
near  Bamberg; '  farther,  that  his  Book  was  finished  in  1300, 
which  date  he  confirms  by  other  local  circumstances. 

Der  dies  Buck  gediditet  hat, 

Vierzig  jar  tor  Babenberg, 

Der  p flag  der  schulen  zu  Thiirstat. 

Und  Mess  Hugo  von  Trymberg. 

Es  ward  fullenbracht  das  ist  wahr, 

Da  tausent  und  drcyhundert  jar 

Nach  Christus  Geburt  vergangen  warm, 

Drithalbs  jar  gleich  vor  den  jaren 

Da  die  Juden  in  Franken  iimrden  erschlagen. 

Bey  der  zeit  und  in  den  tagen, 

Da  bisdioff  Leupolt  bischoff  was 

Zu  Babenberg. 

Some  have  supposed  that  the  Schoolmaster  dignity,  claimed 
here,  refers  not  to  actual  wielding  of  the  birch,  but  to  a 
Mastership  and  practice  of  instructing  in  the  art  of  Poetry, 
which  about  this  time  began  to  have  its  scholars  and  even 
guild  brethren,  as  the  feeble  remnants  of  Minne-song  gradu- 
vol.  ii.  24 


370 


MISCELLANIES. 


ally  took  the  new  shape,  in  which  we  afterwards  see  it,  of 
Meistergesany  (Master-song)  :  but  for  this  hypothesis,  so 
plain  are  Hugo's  own  words,  there  seems  little  foundation. 
It  is  uncertain  whether  he  Avas  a  clerical  personage,  certain 
enough  that  he  was  not  a  monk :  at  all  events,  he  must  have 
been  a  man  of  reading  and  knowledge  ;  industrious  in  study, 
and  superior  in  literary  acquirement  to  most  in  that  time.  By 
a  collateral  account,  we  find  that  he  had  gathered  a  library 
of  two  hundred  Books,  among  which  were  a  whole  dozen 
by  himself,  five  in  Latin,  seven  in  German  ;  hoping  that  by 
means  of  these,  and  the  furtherance  they  would  yield  in  the 
pedagogic  craft,  he  might  live  at  ease  in  his  old  days  ;  in 
which  hope,  however,  he  had  been  disappointed ;  seeing,  as 
himself  rather  feelingly  complains  '  no  one  now  cares  to  study 
'knowledge  (Kunst),  which,  nevertheless,  deserves  honour 
'and  favour.'  What  these  twelve  Books  of  Hugo's  own 
writing  were,  can,  for  most  part,  only  be  conjectured.  Of 
one,  entitled  the  Sammler  (Collector),  he  himself  makes 
mention  in  the  Rentier:  he  had  begun  it  above  thirty  years 
before  this  latter :  but  having  by  ill  accident  lost  great  part 
of  his  manuscript,  abandoned  it  in  anger.  Of  another  work 
Flogel  has  discovered  the  following  notice  to  Johann  Wolffs 
'  About  this  time  (1599)  did  that  virtuous  and  learned  noble- 
'man,  Conrad  von  Liebenstein,  present  to  me  a  manuscript  of 
'  Hugo  von  Trimberg,  who  flourished  about  the  year  1300. 
'It  sets  forth  the  shortcomings  of  all  ranks,  and  especially 
'  complains  of  the  clergy.  It  is  entitled  Reu  ins  Land  (Re- 
'  pentance  to  the  Land)  ;  and  now  lies  with  the  Lord  of  Zill- 
'  hart.' 1  The  other  ten  appear  to  have  vanished  even  to  the 
last  vestige. 

Such  is  the  whole  sum-total  of  information  which  the  assi- 
duity of  commentators  has  collected  touching  worthy  Hugo's 
life  and  fortunes.  Pleasant  it  were  to  see  him  face  to  face ; 
gladly  would  we  penetrate  through  that  long  vista  of  five 
hundred  years,  and  peep  into  his  book-presses,  his  frugal  fire- 
i  Flogel  (iii.  15),  who  quotes  for  it  Wdfii  Lexicon  Memorab.  t.  ii.  p.  1061. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


371 


side,  his  noisy  mansion  with  its  disobedient  urchins,  now  that 
it  is  all  grown  so  silent :  but  the  distance  is  too  far,  the  inter- 
vening medium  intercepts  our  light  ;  only  in  uncertain  fluc- 
tuating dusk,  will  Hugo  and  his  environment  appear  to  us. 
Nevertheless  Hugo,  as  he  had  in  Nature,  has  in  History,  an 
immortal  part :  as  to  his  inward  man,  we  can  still  see  that 
he  was  no  mere  bookworm,  or  simple  Parson  Adams ;  but 
of  most  observant  eye  ;  shrewd,  inquiring,  considerate,  who 
from  his  Thiirstadt  school-chair,  as  from  a  sedes  exploratoria, 
had  looked  abroad  into  the  world's  business,  and  formed  his 
own  theory  about  many  things.  A  cheerful,  gentle  heart  had 
been  given  him ;  a  quiet,  sly  humour ;  light  to  see  beyond 
the  garments  and  outer  hulls  of  Life  into  Life  itself :  the 
long-necked  purse,  the  threadbare  gabardine,  the  languidly- 
simmering  pot  of  his  pedagogic  household  establishment  were 
a  small  matter  to  him :  he  was  a  man  to  look  on  these  things 
with  a  meek  smile  ;  to  nestle  down  quietly,  as  the  lark,  in 
the  lowest  furrow ;  nay  to  mount  therefrom  singing,  and  soar 
above  all  mere  earthly  heights.  How  many  potentates,  and 
principalities,  and  proud  belligerents  have  evaporated  into 
utter  oblivion,  while  the  poor  Thiirstadt  Schoolmaster  still 
holds  together! 

This  Renner,  which  seems  to  be  his  final  work,  probably 
comprises  the  essence  of  all  those  lost  Volumes  ;  and  indeed 
a  synopsis  of  Hugo's  whole  Philosophy  of  Life,  such  as  his 
two  hundred  Books  and  long  decades  of  quiet  observation 
and  reflection  had  taught  him.  Why  it  has  been  named  the 
Renner,  whether  by  Hugo  himself,  or  by  some  witty  Editor 
and  Transcriber,  there  are  two  guesses  forthcoming,  and  no 
certain  reason.  One  guess  is,  that  this  Book  was  to  run  after 
the  lost  Tomes,  and  make  good  to  mankind  the  deficiency 
occasioned  by  want  of  them ;  which  happy-thought,  hide- 
bound though  it  be,  might  have  seemed  sprightly  enough  to 
Hugo  and  that  age.  The  second  guess  is,  that  our  Author, 
in  the  same  style  of  easy  wit,  meant  to  say,  this  Book  must 
hasten  and  run  out  into  the  world,  and  do  him  a  good  turn 


372 


MISCELLANIES. 


quickly,  while  it  was  yet  time,  he  being  so  very  old.  But 
leaving  this,  we  may  remark,  with  certainty  enough,  that 
what  we  have  left  of  Hugo  was  first  printed  under  this  title 
of  Renner,  at  Frankfort  on  the  Mayn,  in  1549 ;  and  quite 
incorrectly,  being  modernised  to  all  lengths,  and  often  with- 
out understanding  of  the  sense  ;  the  Edition  moreover  is  now 
rare,  and  Lessing's  project  of  a  new  one  did  not  take  effect ; 
so  that,  except  in  Manuscripts,  of  which  there  are  many,  and 
in  printed  Extracts,  which  also  are  numerous,  the  Rentier  is 
to  most  readers  a  sealed  book. 

In  regard  to  its  literary  merit  opinions  seem  to  be  nearly 
unanimous.  The  highest  merit,  that  of  poetical  unity,  or 
even  the  lower  merit  of  logical  unity,  is  not  ascribed  to  it 
by  the  warmest  panegyrist.  Apparently  this  work  had  been 
a  sort  of  store-chest,  wherein  the  good  Hugo  had,  from  time 
to  time,  deposited  the  fruits  of  his  meditation  as  they  chanced 
to  ripen  for  him  ;  here  a  little,  and  there  a  little,  in  all  varie- 
ties of  kind  ;  till  the  chest  being  filled,  or  the  fruits  nearly 
exhausted,  it  was  sent  forth  and  published  to  the  world,  by 
the  easy  process  of  turning  up  the  bottom. 

'No  theme/  says  Bouterwek,  'leads  with  certainty  to  the  other : 
satirical  descriptions,  proverbs,  fables,  jests  and  other  narratives,  all 
huddled  together  at  random,  to  teach  us  in  a  poetical  way  a  series 
of  moral  lessons.  A  strained  and  frosty  Allegory  opens  the  work ; 
then  follow  the  Chapters  of  Aleyden  (Maids) ;  of  Wicked  Masters  ; 
of  Pages  ;  of  Priests,  Monks  and  Friars,  with  great  minuteness ; 
then  of  a  Young  Minx  with  an  Old  Man  ;  then  of  Bad  Landlords, 
and  of  Robbers.  Next  come  divers  Virtues  and  Vices,  all  painted 
out,  and  judged  of.  Towards  the  end,  there  follows  a  sort  of  Moral 
Natural  History ;  Considerations  on  the  dispositions  of  various  Ani- 
mals ;  a  little  Botany  and  Physiology  ;  then  again  all  manner  of 
didactic  Narratives  ;  and  finally  a  Meditation  on  the  Last  Day.' 

Whereby  it  would  appear  clearly,  as  hinted,  that  Hugo's 
Renner  pursues  no  straight  course  ;  and  only  through  the 
most  labyrinthic  mazes,  here  wandering  in  deep  thickets,  or 
even  sinking  in  moist  bogs,  there  panting  over  mountain-tops 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


373 


by  narrow  sheep-track*  ;  but  for  most  part  jigging  lightly 
on  sunny  greens,  accomplishes  his  wonderful  journey. 

Nevertheless,  as  we  ourselves  can  testify,  there  is  a  certain 
charm  in  the  worthy  man  ;  his  "Work,  such  as  it  is,  seems 
to  flow  direct  from  the  heart,  in  natural,  spontaneous  abun- 
dance ;  is  at  once  cheerful  and  earnest ;  his  own  simple, 
honest,  mildly  decided  character  is  everywhere  visible.  Be- 
sides Hugo,  as  we  said,  is  a  person  of  understanding  ;  has 
looked  over  many  provinces  of  Life,  not  without  insight ;  in 
his  quiet,  sly  way,  can  speak  forth  a  shrewd  word  on  occa- 
sion. There  is  a  genuine  though  slender  vein  of  Humour  in 
him  ;  nor  in  his  satire  does  he  ever  lose  temper,  but  rebukes 
sportfully ;  not  indeed  laughing  aloud,  scarcely  even  sar- 
donically smiling,  yet  with  a  certain  subdued  roguery  and 
patriarchal  knowingness.  His  fancy  too,  if  not  brilliant,  is 
copious  almost  beyond  measure ;  no  end  to  his  crotchets, 
suppositions,  minute  specifications.  Withal  he  is  original : 
his  maxims,  even  when  professedly  borrowed,  have  passed 
through  the  test  of  his  own  experience  ;  all  carries  in  it 
some  stamp  of  his  personality.  Thus  the  Renner,  though  in 
its  whole  extent  perhaps  too  boundless  and  planless  for 
ordinary  nerves,  makes  in  the  fragmentary  state  no  unpleas- 
ant reading :  that  old  doggerel  is  not  without  significance  ; 
often  in  its  straggling,  broken,  entangled  strokes  some  vivid 
antique  picture  is  strangely  brought  out  for  us. 

As  a  specimen  of  Hugo's  general  manner,  we  select  a 
small  portion  of  his  Chapter  on  The  Maidens  ;  that  passage 
where  he  treats  of  the  highest  enterprise  a  maiden  can  en- 
gage in,  the  choosing  of  a  husband.  It  will  be  seen  at  once 
that  Hugo  is  no  Minnesinger,  glozing  his  fair  audience  with 
madrigals  and  hypocritical  gallantry ;  but  a  quiet  Natural 
Historian,  reporting  such  facts  as  he  finds,  in  perfect  good 
nature,  it  is  true,  yet  not  without  an  undercurrent  of  satirical 
humour.  His  quaint  style  of  thought,  his  garrulous  minute- 
ness of  detail  are  partly  apparent  here.  The  first  few  lines 
we  may  give  in  the  original  also  ;  not  as  they  stand  in  the 


374 


MISCELLANIES. 


Frankfort  Edition,  but  as  professing  to  derive  themselves 
from  a  genuine  ancient  source  : 

Kortzyn  mut  unci  lange  haar 

han  die  meyde  sunderbar 

dy  zu  yrenjaren  Jcommen  synt 

dy  wal  machen  yn  daz  hertze  hlynt 

dy  auchffii  wysen  yn  den  weg 

von  den  auchyn  yet  eyn  steg 

(zu  dem  hertzen  nit  gar  Jang 

tiff  deme  stege  ist  vyl  mannig  gedang 

wen  sy  ivoln  nemen  oder  nit.* 

Short  of  sense  and  long  of  hair, 
Strange  enough  the  maidens  are; 
Once  they  to  their  teens  have  got, 
Such  a  choosing,  this  or  that: 
Eves  they  have  that  ever  spy, 
From  the  Eyes  a  Path  doth  lie 
To  the  Heart,  and  is  not  long, 
Hereon  travel  thoughts  a  throng, 
Which  one  they  will  have  or  not. 

'  Woe's  me,'  continues  Hugo,  '  how  often  this  same  is  repeated  ; 
till  they  grow  all  confused  how  to  choose,  from  so  many,  whom  they 
have  brought  in  without  number.  First  they  bethink  them  so  : 
This  one  is  short,  that  one  is  long;  he  is  courtly  and  old,  the  other 
young  and  ill-favoured ;  this  is  lean,  that  is  bald ;  here  is  one  fat, 
there  one  thin  ;  this  is  noble,  that  is  weak ;  he  never  yet  broke  a 
spear  :  one  is  white,  another  black  ;  that  other  is  named  Master  Hack 
(hartz) ;  this  is  pale,  that  again  is  red  ;  he  seldom  eateth  cheerful 
hread  ; ' 

and  so  on,  through  endless  other  varieties,  in  new  streams  of 
soft-murmuring  doggerel,  whereon,  as  on  the  Patli  it  would 
represent,  do  travel  thoughts  a  throng,  which  one  these  fair 
irresolutes  will  have  or  not. 

Thus,  for  Hugo,  the  age  of  Minstrelsy  is  gone  :  not  soft 
Love-ditties,  and  hymns  of  Lady-worship,  but  sceptical  criti- 
cism, importunate  animadversion,  not  without  a  shade  of 
mockery,  will  he  indite.  The  age  of  Chivalry  is  gone  also. 
To  a  Schoolmaster,  with  empty  larder,  the  pomp  of  tourna- 
ments could  never  have  been  specially  interesting ;  but  now 
l  Horn,  Geschickte  uml  Kritik  der  deutschen  Puesie,  s.  44. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


375 


such  passages  of  arms,  how  free  and  gallant  soever,  appear 
to  him  no  other  than  the  probable  product  of  delirium. 
'  God  might  well  laugh,  could  it  be,'  says  he,  '  to  see  his 
*  mannikins  live  so  wondrously  on  this  Earth  :  two  of  them 
1  will  take  to  lighting,  and  nowise  let  it  alone  ;  nothing  serves 
\  but  with  two  long  spears  they  must  ride  and  stick  at  one 
'  another :  greatly  to  their  hurt ;  for  when  one  is  by  the 
'  other  skewered  through  the  bowels  or  through  the  weasand, 
'  he  hath  small  profit  thereby.  But  who  forced  them  to  such 
'straits?'  The  answer  is  too  plain:  some  modification  of 
Insanity.  Nay,  so  contemptuous  is  Hugo  of  all  chivalrous 
things,  that  he  openly  grudges  any  time  spent  in  reading 
of  them  ;  in  Don  Quixote's  Library  he  would  have  made 
short  work  : 

How  Master  Dietrich  fought  with  Ecken, 
And  how  of  old  the  stalwart  Recken 
Were  all  by  women's  craft  betrayed: 
Such  things  you  oft  hear  sung  and  said, 
And  wept  at,  like  a  case  of  sorrow ;  — 
Of  our  own  Sins  we'll  think  to-morrow. 

This  last  is  one  of  Hugo's  darker  strokes ;  for  commonly, 
though  moral  perfection  is  ever  the  one  thing  needful  with 
him,  he  preaches  in  a  quite  cheerful  tone ;  nay,  ever  and 
anon,  enlivens  us  with  some  timely  joke.  Considerable  part, 
and  apparently  much  the  best  part,  of  his  work  is  occupied 
with  satirical  Fables,  and  Sckwdnke  (jests,  comic  tales)  ;  of 
which  latter  class  we  have  seen  some  possessing  true  humour, 
and  the  simplicity  which  is  their  next  merit.  These,  how- 
ever, we  must  wholly  omit ;  and  indeed,  without  farther  'par- 
laying, here  part  company  with  Hugo.  We  leave  him,  not 
without  esteem,  and  a  touch  of  affection,  due  to  one  so  true- 
hearted,  and,  under  that  old  humble  guise,  so  gifted  with 
intellectual  talent.  Safely  enough  may  be  conceded  him  the 
dignity  of  chief  moral  Poet  of  his  time  ;  nay  perhaps,  for 
his  solid  character,  and  modest  manly  ways,  a  much  higher 
dignity.  Though  his  Book  can  no  longer  be  considered, 
what  the  Frankfort  Editor  describes  it  in  his  interminable 


376 


MISCELLANIES. 


title-page,  as  a  universal  vade-mecum  for  mankind,  it  is  still 
'  so  adorned  with  many  fine  sayings,'  and  in  itself  of  so 
curious  a  texture,  that  it  seems  well  worth  preserving.  A 
proper  Edition  of  the  Rentier  will  one  day  doubtless  make 
its  appearance  among  the  Germans.  Hugo  is  farther  re- 
markable as  the  precursor  and  prototype  of  Sebastian  Brandt, 
whose  Narrenschiff  (Ship  of  Fools)  has,  with  perhaps  less 
merit,  had  infinitely  better  fortune  than  the  Renner. 

Some  half  century  later  in  date,  and  no  less  didactic  in 
character  than  Hugo's  Rentier,  another  Work,  still  rising 
visible  above  the  level  of  those  times,  demands  some  notice 
from  us.  This  is  the  Edelstein  (Gem)  of  Bonerius  or  Boner, 
which  at  one  time,  to  judge  by  the  number  of  Manuscripts, 
whereof  fourteen  are  still  in  existence,  must  have  enjoyed 
great  popularity  ;  and  indeed,  after  long  years  of  oblivion,  it 
has,  by  recent  critics  and  redactors,  been  again  brought  into 
some  circulation.  Boner's  Gem  is  a  collection  of  a  Hundred 
Fables  done  into  German  rhyme ;  and  derives  its  proud 
designation  not  more  perhaps  from  the  supposed  excellence 
of  the  work,  than  from  a  witty  allusion  to  the  title  of  Fable 
First,  which,  in  the  chief  Manuscript,  chances  to  be  that 
well-known  one  of  the  Cock  scraping  for  Barleycorns,  and 
finding  instead  thereof  a  precious  stone  {Edelstein)  or  Gem  : 
Von  einem  Hanen  und  dem  edelen  Steine  ;  whereupon  the 
author,  or  some  kind  friend,  remarks  in  a  sort  of  Prologue  : 

Dies  Eiichlein  mag  der  Edelstein 
Wol  heissen,  wand  es  in  treit  (in  sich  tragi) 
Bischaft  (Beispiel)  manger  kluogheit. 

i  This  Bookling  may  well  be  called  the  Gem,  sith  it  includes 
examples  of  many  a  prudence  ;'  —  which  name,  accordingly, 
as  we  see,  it  bears  even  to  this  day. 

Boner  and  his  Fables  have  given  rise  to  much  discussion 
among  the  Germans  :  scattered  at  short  distances  throughout 
the  last  hundred  years,  there  is  a  series  of  Selections,  Edi- 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


377 


tions,  Translations,  Critical  Disquisitions,  some  of  them  in 
the  shape  of  Academic  Program  ;  among  the  labourers  in 
which  enterprise  we  find  such  men  as  Gellert  and  Lessing. 
A  Bonerii  Gemma,  or  Latin  version  of  the  work,  was  pub- 
lished by  Oberlin,  in  1782  ;  Eschenburg  sent  forth  an  Edition 
in  modern  German,  in  1810  ;  Benecke  a  reprint  of  the  an- 
tique original,  in  1816.  So  that  now  a  faithful  duty  has 
been  done  to  Boner ;  and  what  with  bibliographical  in- 
quiries, what  with  vocabularies,  and  learned  collations  of 
texts,  he  that  runs  may  read  whatever  stands  written  in  the 
Gem. 

Of  these  diligent  lucubrations,  with  which  we  strangers 
are  only  in  a  remote  degree  concerned,  it  will  be  sufficient 
here  to  report  in  few  words  the  main  results,  —  not  indeed 
very  difficult  to  report.  First  then,  with  regard  to  Boner 
himself,  we  have  to  say  that  nothing  whatever  has  been  dis- 
covered :  who,  when,  or  what  that  worthy  moralist  was,  re- 
mains, and  may  always  remain,  entirely  uncertain.  It  is 
merely  conjectured,  from  the  dialect,  and  other  more  minute 
indications,  that  his  place  of  abode  wTas  the  northwest  quarter 
of  Switzerland ;  with  still  higher  probability,  that  he  lived 
about  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  century  ;  from  his  learn- 
ing and  devout  pacific  temper,  some  have  inferred  that  he  was 
a  monk  or  priest ;  however,  in  one  Manuscript  of  his  Gem, 
he  is  designated,  apparently  by  some  ignorant  Transcriber,  a 
knight,  ein  Bitter  gotz  alsus :  from  all  which,  as  above  said, 
our  only  conclusion  is,  that  nothing  can  be  concluded. 

Johann  Scherz,  about  the  year  1710,  in  what  he  called 
Bhilosophice  moralis  Germanorum  medii  cevi  Specimen,  sent 
forth  certain  of  these  Fables,  with  'expositions,  but  appar- 
ently without  naming  the  Author ;  to  which  Specimen  Gel- 
lert in  his  Dissertatio  de  Boesi  Apologorum  had  again,  some 
forty  years  afterwards,  invited  attention.  Nevertheless,  so 
total  was  the  obscurity  which  Boner  had  fallen  into,  that 
Bodmer,  already  known  as  the  resuscitator  of  the  Nibelungen 
Lied,  in  printing  the  Edelstein  from  an  old  Manuscript,  in 


378 


MISCELLANIES. 


1752,  mistook  its  probable  date  by  about  a  century,  and  gave 
his  work  the  title  of  Fables  from  the  Minnesinger  Period* 
without  naming  the  Fabulist,  or  guessing  whether  there 
were  one  or  many.  In  this  condition  stood  the  matter,  when 
several  years  afterwards,  Lessing,  pursuing  another  inquiry, 
came  across  the  track  of  this  Boner;  was  allured  into  it; 
proceeded  to  clear  it ;  and  moving  briskly  forward,  with  a 
sure  eye  and  sharp  critical  axe,  hewed  away  innumerable 
entanglements ;  and  so  opened  out  a  free  avenue  and  vista, 
where  strangely,  in  remote  depth  of  antiquarian  woods,  the 
whole  ancient  Fable-manufactory,  with  Boner  and  many 
others  working  in  it,  becomes  visible,  in  all  the  light  which 
probably  will  ever  be  admitted  to  it,  He  who  has  perplexed 
himself  with  Romulus  and  Rimicius,  and  Nevelet's  Anony- 
mus,  and  Avianus,  and  still  more,  with  the  false  guidance  of 
their  many  commentators,  will  find  help  and  deliverance  in 
this  light,  thorough-going  Inquiry  of  Lessing's.2 

Now,  therefore,  it  became  apparent :  first,  that  those  sup- 
posed Fables  from  the  Minnesinger  Period,  of  Bodmer,  were 
in  truth  written  by  one  Boner,  in  quite  another  Period  ; 
secondly,  that  Boner  was  not  properly  the  author  of  them, 
but  the  borrower  and  free  versifier  from  certain  Latin  origi- 
nals ;  farther,  that  the  real  title  was  Edelstein  ;  and  strangest 
of  all,  that  the  work  had  been  printed  three  centuries  before 
Bodmer's  time,  namely,  at  Bamberg,  in  1461  ;  of  which 
Edition,  indeed,  a  tattered  copy,  typographically  curious,  lay, 
and  probably  lies,  in  the  Wolfenbiittel  Library,  where  Les- 
sing then  waited,  and  wrote.  The  other  discoveries,  touch- 
ing Boner's  personality  and  locality,  are  but  conjectures,  due 
also  to  Lessing,  and  have  been  stated  already. 

As  to  the  Gem  itself,  about  which  there  has  been  such 
scrambling,  we  may  say,  now  when  it  is  cleaned  and  laid  out 

1  Koch  also,  with  a  strange  deviation  from  his  usual  accuracy,  dates 
Boner,  in  one  place,  1220;  and  in  another,  'towards  the  hitter  half  of  the 
fourteenth  centurv.'    See  his  Compendium,  pp.  2S  and  200,  vol.  i. 

2  Sammiliche  Schriften,  b.  viii. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


379 


before  us,  that,  though  but  a  small  seed-pearl,  it  has  a  genu- 
ine value.  To  us  Boner  is  interesting  by  his  antiquity,  as 
the  speaking  witness  of  many  long-past  things ;  to  his  con- 
temporaries again  he  must  have  been  still  more  interesting 
as  the  reporter  of  so  many  new  things.  These  Fables  of 
his,  then  for  the  first  time"  rendered  out  of  inaccessible  Latin  1 
into  German  metre,  contain  no  little  edifying  matter,  had 
we  not  known  it  before ;  our  old  friends,  the  Fox;  with  the 
musical  Raven  ;  the  Man  and  Boy  taking  their  Ass  to  mar- 
ket, and  so  inadequate  to  please  the  public  in  their  method 
of  transporting  him  ;  the  Bishop  that  gave  his  Nephew  a 
Cure  of  Souls,  but  durst  not  trust  him  with  a  Basket  of 
Pears ;  all  these  and  many  more  figure  here.  But  apart 
from  the  material  of  his  Fables,  Boner's  style  and  manner 
has  an  abiding  merit.  He  is  not  so  much  a  Translator  as  a 
free  Imitator :  he  tells  the  story  in  his  own  way ;  appends 
his  own  moral,  and,  except  that  in  the  latter  department  he 
is  apt  to  be  a  little  prolix,  acquits  himself  to  high  satisfac- 
tion. His  narrative,  in  those  old  limping  rhymes,  is  cun- 
ningly enough  brought  out :  artless,  lively,  graphic,  with  a 
spicing  of  innocent  humour,  a  certain  childlike  archness, 
which  is  the  chief  merit  of  a  Fable.  Such  is  the  German 
iEsop ;  a  character  whom  in  the  northwest  district  of  Swit- 

1  The  two  originals  to  whom  Lessing  has  traced  all  his  Fables  are  Avi- 
anus  and  Nevelet's  Anonymus  ;  concerning  which  personages  the  following 
brief  notice  by  Jbrdens  {Lexicon,  i.  161)  maybe  inserted  here:  1  Flavius 
'  Avianns  (who  must  not  be  confounded  with  another  Latin  Poet,  Avie- 
'  nus)  lived,  as  is  believed,  under  the  two  Antonines  in  the  second  cen- 
'  tury :  he  has  left  us  forty-two  Fables  in  elegiac  measure,  the  best  Editions 
'  of  which  are  that  by  Kannegiesser  (Amsterdam,  1731),  that  by'  &c.  &c. 
With  respect  to  the  Anonymus  again:  'Under  this  designation  is  under- 
'  stood  the  half-barbarous  Latin  Poet,  whose  sixty  Fables,  in  elegiac  rneas- 
'  ure,  stand  in  the  collection,  which  Nevelet,  under  the  title  Mythologia 
'  ^-Esopica ,  published  at  Frankfort  in  1610,  and  which  directly  follow  those 
'of  Avianus  in  that  work.  They  are  nothing  else  than  versified  transla- 
'  tions  of  the  Fables  written  in  prose  by  Romulus,  a  noted  Fabulist,  whose 
•  era  cannot  be  fixed,  nor  even  his  name  made  out  to  complete  satisfaction.' 
—  The  reader  who  wants  deeper  insight  into  these  matters  may  consult 
Lessing,  as  cited  above. 


380 


MISCELLANIES. 


zerland,  at  that  time  of  day,  we  should  hardly  have  looked 
for.  "  " 

Could  we  hope  that  to  many  of  our  readers  the  old  rough 
dialect  of  Boner  would  be  intelligible,  it  were  easy  to  vindi- 
cate these  praises.  As  matters  stand,  we  can  only  venture 
on  one  translated  specimen,  which  in  this  shape  claims  much 
allowance ;  the  Fable,  also,  is  nowise  the  best,  or  perhaps 
the  worst,  but  simply  one  of  the  shortest.  For  the  rest,  we 
have  rendered  the  old  doggerel  into  new,  with  all  possible 
fidelity : 

THE  FROG  AND  THE  STEER. 

Of  him  that  striveth  after  more  honour  than  he  should. 

A  Frog  with  Frogling  by  his  side 

Came  hopping  through  the  plain,  one  tide: 

There  he  an  Ox  at  grass  did  spy, 

Much  anger'd  was  the  Frog  thereby; 

He  said :  "  Lord  God,  what  was  my  sin 

Thou  madest  me  so  small  and  thin  ? 

Likewise  I  have  no  handsome  feature, 

And  all  dishonoured  is  my  nature, 

To  other  creatures  far  and  near, 

For  instance,  this  same  grazing  Steer." 

The  Frog  would  fain  with  Bullock  cope, 

'Gan  brisk  outblow  himself  in  hope. 

Then  spake  his  Frogling:  "  Father  o'  me, 

It  boots  not,  let  thy  blowing  be; 

Thy  nature  hath  forbid  this  battle, 

Thou  canst  not  vie  with  the  black-cattle." 

Nathless  let  be  the  Frog  would  not, 

Such  prideful  notion  had  he  got; 

Again  to  blow  right  sore  'gan  he, 

And  said :  "  Like  Ox  could  I  but  be 

In  size,  within  this  world  there  were 

No  Frog  so  glad,  to  thee  I  swear." 

The  Son  spake :  "  Father,  me  is  woe 

Thou  shouldst  torment  thy  body  so, 

I  fear  thou  art  to  lose  thy  life ; 

Come  follow  me  and  leave  this  strife; 

Good  Father,  take  advice  of  me, 

And  let  thy  boastful  blowing  be." 

Frog  said:  "  Thou  need'st  not  beck  and  nod, 

I  will  not  do't,  so  help  me  God; 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


381 


Big  as  this  Ox  is  I  must  turn, 
Mine  honour<now  it  doth  concern." 
He  blew  himself,  and  burst  in  twain, 
Such  of  that  blowing  was  his  gain. 

The  like  hath  oft  been  seen  of  such 
Who  grasp  at  honour  overmuch; 
They  must  with  -none  at  all  be  doing, 
But  sink  full  soon  and  come  to  ruin. 
He  that,  with  wind  of  Pride  accurs'd, 
Much  puffs  himself,  will  surely  burst; 
He  men  miswishes  and  misjudges, 
Inferiors  scorns,  superiors  grudges, 
Of  all  his  equals  is  a  hater, 
Much  griev'dhe  is  at  any  better; 
Wherefore  it  were  a  sentence  wise 
Were  his  whole  body  set  with  Eyes, 
Who  envy  hath,  to  see  so  well 
What  lucky  hap  each  man  befell, 
That  so  he  filled  were  with  fury, 
And  burst  asunder  in  a  hurry ; 
And  so  full  soon  betid  him  this 
Which  to  the  Frog  betided  is. 

Readers  to  whom  such  stinted  twanging  of  the  true  Poetic 
Lyre,  such  cheerful  fingering,  though  only  of  one  and  its 
lowest  string,  has  any  melody,  may  find  enough  of  it  in  Be- 
necke's  Boner,  a  reproduction,  as  above  stated,  of  the  original 
Edelstein ;  which  Edition  we  are  authorised  to  recommend 
as  furnished  with  all  helps  for  such  a  study :  less  adventur- 
ous readers  may  still,  from  Eschenburg's  half-modernised 
Edition,  derive  some  contentment  and  insight. 

Hugo  von  Trimberg  and  Boner,  who  stand  out  here  as 
our  chief  Literary  representatives  of  the  Fourteenth  Cen- 
tury, could  play  no  such  part  in  their  own  day,  when  the 
great  men,  who  shone  in  the  world's  eye,  were  Theologians 
and  Jurists,  Politicians  at  the  Imperial  Diet ;  at  best  Pro- 
fessors in  the  new  Universities  ;  of  whom  all  memory  has 
long  since  perished.  So  different  is  universal  from  tempo- 
rary importance,  and  worth  belonging  to  our  manhood  from 
that  merely  of  our  station  or  calling.  Nevertheless,  as 
every  writer,  of  any  true  gifts,  is  'citizen  both  of  his  time 


382 


MISCELLANIES. 


and  of  his  country,'  and  the  more  completely  the  greater  his 
gifts ;  so  in  the  works  of  these  two  secluded  individuals,  the 
characteristic  tendencies  and  spirit  of  their  age  may  best  be 
discerned. 

Accordingly,  in  studying  their  commentators,  one  fact  that 
cannot  but  strike  us  is,  the  great  prevalence  and  currency 
which  this  species  of  Literature,  cultivated  by  them,  had  ob- 
tained in  that  era.  Of  Fable  Literature  especially,  this  was 
the  summer-tide  and  highest  efflorescence.  The  Latin  origi- 
nals which  Boner  partly  drew  from,  descending,  with  mani- 
fold transformations  and  additions,  out  of  classical  times, 
were  in  the  hands  of  the  learned  ;  in  the  living  memories  of 
the  people  were  numerous  fragments  of  primeval  Oriental 
Fable,  derived  perhaps  through  Palestine ;  from  which  two 
sources,  curiously  intermingled,  a  whole  stream  of  Fables 
evolved  itself ;  whereat  the  morally  athirst,  such  was  the 
genius  of  that  time,  were  not  slow  to  drink.  Boner,  as  we 
have  seen,  worked  in  a  field  then  zealously  cultivated  :  nay, 
was  not  iEsop  himself,  what  we  have  for  iEsop,  a  contem- 
porary of  his ;  the  Greek  Monk  Planudes  and  the  Swiss 
Monk  Boner  might  be  chanting  their  Psalter  at  one  and  the 
same  hour ! 

Fable,  indeed,  may  be  regarded  as  the  earliest  and  sim- 
plest product  of  Didactic  Poetry,  the  first  attempt  of  In- 
struction clothing  itself  in  Fancy:  hence  the  antiquity  of 
Fables,  their  universal  diffusion  in  the  childhood  of  nations, 
so  that  they  have  become  a  common  property  of  all :  hence 
also  their  acceptance  and  diligent  culture  among  the  Ger- 
mans, among  the  Europeans,  in  this  the  first  stage  of  an  era 
when  the  wdiole  bent  of  Literature  was  Didactic.  But  the 
Fourteenth  Century  was  the  age  of  Fable  in  a  still  wider 
sense:  it  was  the  age  when  whatever  Poetry  there  remained 
took  the  shape  of  Apologue  and  moral  Fiction:  the  higher 
spirit  of  Imagination  had  died  awTay,  or  withdrawn  itself 
into  Religion  ;  the  lower  and  feebler  not  only  took  continual 
counsel  of  Understanding,  but  was  content  to  walk  in  its 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


383 


leading-strings.  Now  was  the  time  when  human  life  and 
its  relations  were  looked  at  with  an  earnest  practical  eye ; 
and  the  moral  perplexities  that  occur  there,  when  man, 
hemmed-in  between  the  Would  and  the  Should,  or  the  Must, 
painfully  hesitates,  or  altogether  sinks  in  that  collision,  were 
not  only  set  forth  in  the  way  of  precept,  but  embodied,  for 
still  clearer  instruction,  in  Examples,  and  edifying  Fictions. 
The  Monks  themselves,  such  of  them  as  had  any  talent, 
meditated  and  taught  in  this  fashion :  witness  that  strange 
Gesta  Romanorum,  still  extant,  and  once  familiar  over  all 
Europe ;  —  a  Collection  of  Moral  Tales,  expressly  devised 
for  the  use  of  Preachers,  though  only  the  Shakspeares,  and 
in  subsequent  times,  turned  it  to  right  purpose.1  These  and 
the  like  old  Gests,  with  most  of  which  the  Romans  had  so 
little  to  do,  were  the  staple  Literature  of  that  period  ;  culti- 
vated with  great  assiduity,  and  so  far  as  mere  invention,  or 
compilation,  of  incident  goes,  with  no  little  merit ;  for  already 
almost  all  the  grand  destinies,  and  fundamental  ever-recur- 
ring entanglements  of  human  life,  are  laid  hold  of  and  de- 
picted here  ;  so  that,  from  the  first,  our  modern  Novelists  and 
Dramatists  could  find  nothing  new  under  the  sun,  but  every- 
where, in  contrivance  of  their  Story,  saw  themselves  fore- 
stalled. The  boundless  abundance  of  Narratives  then  cur- 
rent, the  singular  derivations  and  transmigrations  of  these, 
surprise  antiquarian  commentators  :  but,  indeed,  it  was  in 
this  same  century  that  Boccaccio,  refining  the  gold  from  that 
so  copious  dross,  produced  his  Decamerone,  which  still  indi- 
cates the  same  fact  in  more  pleasant  fashion,  to  all  readers. 
That  in  these  universal  tendencies  of  the  time  the  Germans 
participated  and  cooperated,  Boner's  Fables,  and  Hugo's 
many  Narrations',  serious  and  comic,  may,  like  two  speci- 
mens from  a  great  multitude,  point  out  to  us.  The  Madrigal 
had  passed  into  the  Apologue ;  the  Heroic  Poem,  with  its 
supernatural  machinery  and  sentiment,  into  the  Fiction  of 


1  See  an  account  of  this  curious  Book  in  Douce's  learned  and  ingenious 
Illustrations  of  Shaksjjcare. 


384 


MISCELLANIES. 


practical  Life :  in  which  latter  species  a  prophetic  eye  might 
have  discerned  the  coming  Tom  Joneses  and  Wilhelm  Mei- 
sters  ;  and  with  still  more  astonishment,  the  Minerva  Presses 
of  all  nations,  and  this  their  huge  transit-trade  in  Rags,  all 
lifted  from  the  dunghill,  printed  on,  and  returned  thither,  to 
the  comfort  of  parties  interested. 

The  Drama,  as  is  well  known,  had  an  equally  Didactic 
origin  ;  namely,  in  those  Mysteries  contrived  by  the  clergy 
for  bringing  home  religious  truth,  with  new  force,  to  the  uni- 
versal comprehension.  That  this  cunning  device  had  already 
found  its  way  into  Germany,  we  have  proof  in  a  document 
too  curious  to  be  omitted  here  : 

'  In  the  year  1322,  there  was  a  play  shown  at  Eisenach,  which  had 
a  tragical  enough  effect.  Markgrat  Friedrich  of  Misnia,  Landgraf 
also  of  Thuringia,  having  brought  his  tedious  warfares  to  a  conclu- 
sion, and  the  country  beginning  now  to  revive  under  peace,  his  sub- 
jects were  busy  repaying  themselves  for  the  past  distresses  by  all 
manner  of  diversions  ;  to  which  end,  apparently  by  the  Sovereign's 
order,  a  dramatic  representation  of  the  Ten  Virgins  was  schemed, 
and  at  Eisenach,  in  his  presence,  duly  executed.  This  happened 
fifteen  days  after  Easter,  by  indulgence  of  the  Preaching  Friars.  In 
the  Chronicon  Sampetrinum  stands  recorded  that  the  play  was  enacted 
in  the  Bear-garden  (in  horto  ferarum),  by  the  clergy  and  their  schol- 
ars. But  now,  when  it  came  to  pass  that  the  Wise  Virgins  would 
give  the  Foolish  no  oil,  and  these  latter  were  shut  out  from  the  Bride- 
groom, they  began  to  weep  bitterly,  and  called  on  the  Saints  to  inter- 
cede for  them ;  who,  however,  even  with  Mary  at  their  head,  could 
effect  nothing  from  God ;  but  the  Foolish  Virgins  were  all  sentenced 
to  damnation.  Which  things  the  Landgraf  seeing  and  hearing,  he 
fell  into  a  doubt,  and  was  very  angry  ;  and  said,  "  What  then  is  the 
Christian  Faith,  if  God  will  not  take  pity  on  us,  for  intercession  of 
Mary  and  all  the  Saints  ?  "  In  this  anger  he  continued  five  days  ; 
and  the  learned  men  could  hardly  enlighten  him  to  understand  the 
Gospel.  Thereupon  he  was  struck  with  apoplexy,  and  became 
speechless  and  powerless ;  in  which  sad  state  he  continued  bed-rid, 
two  years  and  seven  months,  and  so  died,  being  then  fifty -five.' 1 

Surely  a  serious  warning,  would  they  but  take  it,  to  Dra- 

1  Flugel  (  Geechickte  dtr  komischen  Litteratur,  iv.  287),  who  founds  on  that 
old  Chronicon  Sampetrinum  JErfurtemse,  contained  in  MenUe's  Collection. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


385 


niatic  Critics,  not  to  venture  beyond  their  depth  !  Had  this 
fiery  old  Landgraf  given  up  the  reins  of  his  imagination  into 
his  author's  hands,  he  might  have  been  pleased  he  knew  not 
why :  whereas  the  meshes  of  Theology,  in  which  he  kicks 
and  struggles,  here  strangle  the  life  out  of  him  ;  and  the  Ten 
Virgins  at  Eisenach  are  more  fatal  to  warlike  men  than 
iEschylus's  Furies  at  Athens  were  to  weak  women. 

Neither  were  the  unlearned  People  without  their  Litera- 
ture, their  Narrative  Poetry  ;  though  how,  in  an  age  with- 
out printing  and  bookstalls,  it  was  circulated  among  them  ; 
whether  by  strolling  Fideleres  (Minstrels),  who  might  recite 
as  well  as  fiddle,  or  by  other  methods,  we  have  not  learned. 
However,  its  existence  and  abundance  in  this  era  is  suffi- 
ciently evinced  by  the  multitude  of  Volksbucher  (People's- 
Books)  which  issued  from  the  Press,  next  century,  almost  as 
soon  as  there  was  a  Press.  Several  of  these,  which  still 
languidly  survive  among  the  people,  or  at  least  the  children, 
of  all  countries,  were  of  German  composition;  of  most,  so 
strangely  had  they  been  sifted  and  winnowed  to  and  fro,  it 
was  impossible  to  fix  the  origin.  But  borrowed  or  domestic, 
they  nowhere  wanted  admirers  in  Germany:  the  Patient 
Helena,  the  Fair  Magelone,  Bluebeard,  Fortunatus ;  these, 
and  afterwards  the  Seven  Wise  Masters,  with  other  more 
directly  iEsopic  ware,  to  which  the  introduction  of  the  old 
Indian  stock,  or  Book  of  Wisdom,  translated  from  John  of 
Capua's  Latin,1  one  day  formed  a  rich  accession,  were  in  all 
memories  and  on  all  tongues. 

Beautiful  traits  of  Imagination  and  a  pure  genuine  feeling, 
though  under  the  rudest  forms,  shine  forth  in  some  of  these 
old  Tales :  for  instance,  in  Magelone  and  Fortunatus ;  which 
two,  indeed,  with  others  of  a  different  stamp,  Ludwig  Tieck 
has,  witli  singular  talent,  ventured,  not  unsuccessfully,  to  repro- 
duce in  our  own  time  and  dialect.    A  second  class  distinguish 

i  In  1483,  by  command  of  a  certain  Eberhard,  Duke  of  Wiirtemberg. 
What  relation  this  old  Book  of  Wisdom  bears  to  our  actual  Pilpay,  we  have 
not  learned. 

Vol.  u.  25 


386 


MISCELLANIES. 


themselves  by  a  homely,  honest-hearted  Wisdom,  full  of  char- 
acter and  quaint  devices ;  of  which  class  the  Seven  Wise 
Masters,  extracted  chiefly  from  that  Gesta  Romano-rum  above 
mentioned,  and  containing  '  proverb-philosophy,  anecdotes, 
'  fables  and  jests,  the  seeds  of  which,  on  the  fertile  German 
'  soil,  spread  luxuriantly  through  several  generations,'  is  per- 
haps the  best  example.  Lastly,  in  a  third  class,  we  find  in 
full  play  that  spirit  of  broad  drollery,  of  rough  saturnine 
Humour,  which  the  Germans  claim  as  a  special  character- 
istic ;  among  these,  we  must  not  omit  to  mention  the  Schilt- 
burger,  correspondent  to  our  own  Wise  Men  of  Gotham  ;  still 
less,  the  far-famed  Tyll  Euhnspiegel  (Tyll  Owlglass),  whose 
rogueries  and  waggeries  belong,  in  the  fullest  sense,  to  this 
era. 

This  last  is  a  true  German  work ;  for  both  the  man  Tyll 
Eulenspiegel,  and  the  Book  which  is  his  history,  were  pro- 
duced there.  Nevertheless,  Tyll's  fame  has  gone  abroad  into 
all  lands  :  this,  the  Narrative  of  his  exploits,  has  been  pub- 
lished in  innumerable  editions,  even  with  all  manner  of 
learned  glosses,  and  translated  into  Latin,  English,  French, 
Dutch,  Polish  ;  nay,  in  several  languages,  as  in  his  own,  an 
Eulenspiegelerei,  an  JSspieglerie,  or  dog's-trick,  so  named  after 
him,  still,  by  consent  of  lexicographers,  keeps  his  memory 
alive.  We  may  say,  that  to  few  mortals  has  it  been  granted 
to  earn  such  a  place  in  Universal  History  as  Tyll :  for  now 
after  five  centuries,  when  Wallace's  birthplace  is  unknown 
even  to  the  Scots ;  and  the  Admirable  Crichton  still  more 
rapidly  is  grown  a  shadow ;  and  Edward  Longshanks  sleeps 
unregarded  save  by  a  few  antiquarian  English,  —  Tyll's 
native  village  is  pointed  out  with  pride  to  the  traveller,  and 
his  tombstone,  with  a  sculptured  pun  on  his  name,  an  Owl, 
namely,  and  a  Glass,  still  stands,  or  pretends  to  stand,  '  at 
Mbllen,  near  Lubeok,'  where,  since  1350,  his  once  nimble 
bones  have  been  at  rest.  Tyll,  in  the  calling  he  had  chosen, 
naturally  led  a  wandering  life,  as  place  after  place  became 
too  hot  fur  him  ;  by  which  means  he  saw  into  many  things 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


387 


with  his  own  eyes  :  having  been  not  only  over  all  Westpha- 
lia and  Saxony,  but  even  in  Poland,  and  as  far  as  Rome. 
That  in  his  old  days,  like  other  great  men,  he  became  an 
Autobiographer,  and  in  trustful  winter  evenings,  not  on 
paper,  but  on  air,  and  to  the  laughter-lovers  of  Mollen,  com- 
posed this  work  himself,  is'  purely  a  hypothesis ;  certain  only 
that  it  came  forth  originally  in  the  dialect  of  this  region, 
namely  the  Platt-Deutsch ;  and  was  therefrom  translated, 
probably  about  a  century  afterwards,  into  its  present  High 
German,  as  Lessing  conjectures,  by  one  Thomas  Miirner, 
who  on  other  grounds  is  not  unknown  to  antiquaries.  For 
the  rest,  write  it  who  might,  the  Book  is  here,  '  abounding,' 
as  a  wise  Critic  remarks,  'in  inventive  humour,  in  rough 
'  merriment  and  broad  drollery,  not  without  a  keen  rugged 
'  shrewdness  of  insight ;  which  properties  must  have  made  it 
'  irresistibly  captivating  to  the  popular  sense ;  and,  with  all 
'  its  fantastic  extravagancies  and  roguish  crotchets,  in  many 
'  points  instructive.' 

From  Tyll's  so  captivating  achievements,  we  shall  here 
select  one  to  insert  some  account  of ;  the  rather  as  the  tale 
is  soon  told,  and  by  means  of  it  we  catch  a  little  trait  of 
manners,  and,  through  Tyll's  spectacles,  may  peep  into  the 
interior  of  a  Household,  even  of  a  Parsonage,  in  those  old 
days. 

'  It  chanced  after  so  many  adventures,  that  Eulenspiegel  came  to 
a  Parson,  who  promoted  him  to  be  his  Sacristan,  or  as  we  now  say, 
Sexton.  Of  this  Parson  it  is  recorded  that  he  kept  a  Concubine, 
who  had  but  one  eye ;  she  also  had  a  spite  at  Tyll,  and  was  wont  to 
speak  evil  of  him  to  his  master,  and  report  his  rogueries.  Now 
while  Eulenspiegel  held  this  Sextoncy,  the  Easter-season  came,  and 
there  was  to  be  a  play  set  forth  of  the  Resurrection  of  Our  Lord. 
And  as  the  people  were  not  learned,  and  could  not  read,  the  Parson 
took  his  Concubine  and  stationed  her  in  the  holy  Sepulchre  hy  way 
of  Angel.  Which  thing  Eulenspiegel  seeing,  he  took  to  him  three 
of  the  simplest  persons  that  could  be  found  there,  to  enact  the  Three 
Marys  ;  and  the  Parson  himself,  with  a  flag  in  his  hand,  represented 
Christ.  Thereupon  spake  Eulenspiegel  to  the  simple  persons  : 
"  When  the  Angel  asks  you,  Whom  ye  seek,  ye  must  answer:  The 


388 


MISCELLANIES. 


Parson's  one-eyed  Concubine."  Now  it  came  to  pass  that  the 
time  arrived  when  they  were  to  act,  and  the  Angel  asked  them  : 
"  Whom  seek  ye  here  ?  "  and  they  answered,  as  Eulenspiegel  had 
taught  and  bidden  them,  and  said :  "  We  seek  the  Parson's  one- 
eyed  Concubine."  Whereby  did  the  Parson  observe  that  he  was 
made  a  mock  of.  And  when  the  Parson's  Concubine  heard  the 
same,  she  started  out  of  the  Grave,  and  aimed  a  box  at  Eulen- 
spiegel's  face,  but  missed  him,  and  hit  one  of  the  simple  persons, 
who  were  representing  the  Three  Marys.  This  latter  then  returned 
her  a  slap  on  the  mouth,  whereupon  she  caught  him  by  the  hair. 
But  his  Wife  seeing  this,  came  running  thither,  and  fell  upon  the 
Parson's  Harlot.  Which  thing  the  Parson  discerning,  he  threw 
down  his  flag,  and  sprang  forward  to  his  Harlot's  assistance.  Thus 
gave  they  one  another  hearty  thwacking  and  basting,  and  there  was 
great  uproar  in  the  Church.  But  when  Eulenspiegel  perceived  that 
they  all  had  one  another  by  the  ears  in  the  Church,  he  went  his 
ways,  and  came  no  more  back." 1 

These  and  the  like  pleasant  narratives  were  the  People's 
Comedy  in  those  days.  Neither  was  their  Tragedy  wanting ; 
as  indeed  both  spring  up  spontaneously  in  all  regions  of 
human  Life  ;  however,  their  chief  work  of  this  latter  class, 
the  wild,  deep  and  now  world-renowned  Legend  of  Faust, 
belongs  to  a  somewhat  later  date.2 

1  Flogel,  iv.  290.  For  more  of  Eulenspiegel,  see  Gorres  Ueber  die  Volks- 
bilcher. 

2  To  the  fifteenth  century,  say  some  who  fix  it  on  Johann  Faust,  the 
Goldsmith  and  partial  Inventor  of  Printing:  to  the  sixteenth  century,  say 
others,  referring  it  to  Johann  Faust,  Doctor  in  Philosophy;  which  indi- 
vidual did  actually,  as  the  Tradition  also  bears,  study  first  at  Wittenberg 
(where  he  might  be  one  of  Luther's  pupils),  then  at  Ingolstadt,  where  also 
he  taught,  and  had  a  Famulus  named  Wagner,  son  of  a  clergyman  at 
Wasserberg  Melancthon,  Tritheim  and  other  credible  witnesses,  some  of 
whom  had  seen  the  man,  vouch  sufficiently  for  these  facts.  The  rest  of 
the  Doctor's  history  is  much  more  obscure.  He  seems  to  have  been  of  a 
vehement,  unquiet  temper;  skilled  in  Natural  Philosophy,  and  perhaps  in 
the  occult  science  of  Conjuring,  by  aid  of  which  two  gifts,  a  much  shal- 
lower man,  wandering  in  Need  and  Pride  over  the  world  in  those  days, 
might,  without  any  Mephistopheles,  have  worked  wonders  enough.  Nev- 
ertheless, that  he  rode  off  through  the  air  on  a  wine-cask,  from  Auerbacli's 
Keller  at  Leipsig,  in  1523,  seems  questionable;  though  an  old  carving,  in 
that  venerable  Tavern,  still  mutely  asserts  it  to  the  toper  of  this  day. 
About  1560,  his  term  of  Thaumaturgy  being  over,  he  disappeared:  whether, 
under  feigned  name,  by  the  rope  of  some  hangman;  or  'frightfully  torn  in 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


389 


Thus,  though  the  Poetry  which  spoke  in  rhyme  was  feeble 
enough,  the  spirit  of  Poetry  could  nowise  be  regarded  as 
extinct;  while  Fancy,  Imagination  and  all  the  intellectual 
faculties  necessary  for  that  art,  were  in  active  exercise. 
Neither  had  the  Enthusiasm  of  heart,  on  which  it  still  more 
intimately  depends,  died  out;  but  only  taken  another  form. 
In  lower  degrees  it  expressed  itself  as  an  ardent  zeal  for 
Knowledge  and  Improvement ;  for  spiritual  excellence  such 
as  the  time  held  out  and  prescribed.  This  was  no  languid, 
low-minded  age ;  but  of  earnest  busy  effort ;  in  all  provinces 
of  culture  resolutely  struggling  forward.  Classical  Litera- 
ture, after  long  hindrances,  had  now  found  its  way  into  Ger- 
many also  :  old  Rome  was  open,  with  all  its  wealth,  to  the 
intelligent  eye  ;  scholars  of  Chrysoloras  were  fast  unfolding 
the  treasures  of  Greece.  School  Philosophy,  which  had 
never  obtained  firm  footing  among  the  Germans,  was  in  all 
countries  drawing  to  a  close ;  but  the  subtle,  piercing  vision, 
which  it  had  fostered  and  called  into  activity,  was  henceforth 
to  employ  itself  with  new  profit  on  more  substantial  interests. 
In  such  manifold  praiseworthy  endeavours  the  most  ardent 
mind  had  ample  arena. 

A  higher,  purer  enthusiasm,  again,  which  no  longer  found 
its  place  in  chivalrous  Minstrelsy,  might  still  retire  to  medi- 
tate and  worship  in  religious  Cloisters,  where,  amid  all  the 
corruption  of  monkish  manners,  there  were  not  wanting  men 
who  aimed  at,  and  accomplished,  the  highest  problem  of 

'  pieces  by  the  Devil,  near  the  village  of  Rimlich,  between  Twelve  and  One 
'  in  the  morning,'  let  each  reader  judge  for  himself.  The  latter  was 
clearly  George  Rudolf  Wiedemann's  opinion,  whose  Veritable  History  of 
the  abominable  Sins  of  Dr.  Miami  Faust  came  out  at  Hamburg  in  1599; 
and  is  no  less  circumstantially  announced  in  the  old  People's-Book,  That 
everywhere-infamous  Arch-Black-Artist  and  Conjuror,  Dr.  Faust's  Compact 
loith  the  Devil,  wonderful  Walk  and  Conversation,  and  terrible  End,  printed, 
seemingly  without  date,  at  Koln  (Cologne)  and  Niirnberg;  read  by  every 
one;  written  by  we  know  not  whom.  See  again,  for  farther  insight,  Gorres 
Ueber  die  deutschen  Volksbiicher.  Another  Work  (Leipsig,  1824),  expressly 
'  On  Faust  and  the  Wandering  Jew,'  which  latter,  in  those  times,  wan- 
dered much  in  Germany,  is  also  referred  to.  —  Com:  Lexicon.  §  Faust. 


390 


MISCELLANIES. 


manhood,  a  life  of  spiritual  Truth.  Among  the  Germans 
especially,  that  deep-feeling,  deep-thinking,  devout  temper, 
now  degenerating  into  abstruse  theosophy,  now  purifying 
itself  into  holy  eloquence  and  clear  apostolic  light,  was  awake 
in  this  era  ;  a  temper  which  had  long  dwelt,  and  still  dwells 
there  ;  which  erelong  was  to  render  that  people  worthy  the 
honour  of  giving  Europe  a  new  Reformation,  a  new  Religion. 
As  an  example  of  monkish  diligence  and  zeal,  if  of  nothing 
more,  we  here  mention  the  German  Bible  of  Mathias  von 
Behaim,  which,  in  his  Hermitage  at  Halle,  he  rendered  from 
the  Vulgate,  in  1343  ;  the  Manuscript  of  which  is  still  to  be 
seen  in  Leipzig.  Much  more  conspicuous  stand  two  other 
German  Priests  of  this  Period  ;  to  whom,  as  connected  with 
Literature  also,  a  few  words  must  now  be  devoted. 

Johann  Tauler  is  a  name  which  fails  in  no  Literary  His- 
tory of  Germany  :  he  was  a  man  famous  in  his  own  day  as 
the  most  eloquent  of  preachers  ;  is  still  noted  by  critics  for 
his  intellectual  deserts ;  by  pious  persons,  especially  of  the 
class  called  Mystics,  is  still  studied  as  a  practical  instructor ; 
and  by  all  true  inquirers  prized  as  a  person  of  high  talent 
and  moral  worth.  Tauler  was  a  Dominican  Monk  ;  seems 
to  have  lived  and  preached  at  Strasburg;  where,  as  his  grave- 
stone still  testifies,  he  died  in  1361.  His  devotional  works 
have  been  often  edited  :  one  of  his  modern  admirers  has 
written  his  biography ;  wherein  perhaps  this  is  the  strangest 
fact,  if  it  be  one,  that  once  in  the  pulpit,  '  he  grew  suddenly 
'  dumb,  and  did  nothing  but  weep ;  in  which  despondent  state 
'  he  continued  for  two  whole  years.'  Then,  however,  he 
again  lifted  up  his  voice,  with  new  energy  and  new  potency. 
We  learn  farther,  that  he  '  renounced  the  dialect  of  Philoso- 
phy, and  spoke  direct  to  the  heart  in  language  of  the  heart.' 
His  Sermons,  composed  in  Latin  and  delivered  in  German, 
in  which  language,  after  repeated  renovations  and  changes 
of  dialect,  they  are  still  read,  have,  with  his  other  writings, 
been  characterised,  by  a  native  critic  worthy  of  confidence, 
in  these  terms  : 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


391 


c  They  contain  a  treasure  of  meditations,  hints,  indications,  full  of 
heart-felt  piety,  which  still  speak  to  the  inmost  longings  and  noblest 
wants  of  man's  mind.  His  style  is  abrupt,  compressed,  significant  in 
its  conciseness  ;  the  nameless  depth  of  feelings  struggles  with  the 
phraseology.  He  was  the  first  that  wrested  from  our  German  speech 
the  fit  expression  for  ideas  of  moral  Reason  and  Emotion,  and  has 
left  us  riches  in  that  kind,  such  as  the  zeal  for  purity  and  fulness  of 
language  in  our  own  days  cannot  leave  unheeded.'  —  Tauler,  it  is  add- 
ed, '  was  a  man  who,  imbued  with  genuine  Devoutness,  as  it  springs 
from  the  depths  of  a  soul  strengthened  in  self-contemplation,  and, 
free  and  all  powerful,  rules  over  Life-  and  Effort, —  attempted  to  train 
and  win  the  people  for  a  duty  which  had  hitherto  been  considered  as 
that  of  the  learned  class  alone  :  to  raise  the  Lay-world  into  moral 
study  of  Religion  for  themselves,  that  so,  enfranchised  from  the 
bonds  of  unreflecting  custom,  they  might  regulate  Creed  and  Con- 
duct by  strength  self-acquired.  He  taught  men  to  look  within  ;  by 
spiritual  contemplation  to  feel  the  secret  of  their  higher  Destiny  ;  to 
seek  in  their  own  souls  what  from  without  is  never,  or  too  scantily 
afforded  ;  self-believing,  to  create  what,  by  the  dead  letter  of  foreign 
Tradition,  can  never  be  brought  forth.' 1 

Known  to  all  Europe,  as  Tauler  is  to  Germany,  and  of  a 
class  with  him,  as  a  man  of  antique  Christian  walk,  of  warm 
devoutly-feeling  poetic  spirit,  and  insight  and  experience  in 
the  deepest  regions  of  man's  heart  and  life,  follows,  in  the 
next  generation,  Thomas  Hamerken,  or  Hammerlein  (Mal- 
leolus) ;  usually  named  Thomas  a  Kempis,  that  is,  Thomas 
of  Kempen,  a  village  near  Cologne,  where  he  was  born  in 
1388.  Others  contend  that  Kampen  in  Overyssel  was  his 
birthplace ;  however,  in  either  case,  at  that  era,  more  espe- 
cially considering  what  he  did,  we  can  here  regard  him  as  a 
Deutscher,  a  German.  For  his  spiritual  and  intellectual 
character  we  may  refer  to  his  works,  written  in  the  Latin 
tongue,  and  still  known  ;  above  all,  to  his  far-famed  work 
De  Imitatione  Christi,  which  has  been  praised  by  such  men 
as  Luther,  Leibnitz,  Haller ;  and,  what  is  more,  has  been 
read,  and  continues  to  be  read,  with  moral  profit,  in  all  Chris- 
tian languages  and  communions,  having  passed  through  up- 

1  Wachler,  Vorlesungen  Sber  die  Geschichle  der  deulschen  Nationnl-littera- 
tur  (Lectures  on  the  History  of  German  National  Literature),  b.  i.  s.  131. 


392 


MISCELLANIES. 


wards  of  a  thousand  editions,  which  number  is  yet  daily 
increasing.  A  new  English  Thomas  a  Kempis  was  published 
only  the  other  year.  But  the  venerable  man  deserves  a 
word  from  us,  not  only  as  a  high,  spotless  Priest,  and  father 
of  the  Church,  at  a  time  when  such  were  rare,  but  as  a 
zealous  promoter  of  learning,  which,  in  his  own  country,  he 
accomplished  much  to  forward.  Hammerlein,  the  son  of 
poor  parents,  had  been  educated  at  the  famous  school  of 
Deventer  ;  he  himself  instituted  a  similar  one  at  Zwoll, 
which  long  continued  the  grand  classical  seminary  of  the 
North.  Among  his  own  pupils  we  find  enumerated  Moritz 
von  Spiegelberg,  Rudolf  von  Lange,  Rudolf  Agricola,  An- 
tonius  Liber,  Ludwig  Dringenberg,  Alexander  Hegius  ;  of 
whom  Agricola,  with  other  two,  by  advice  of  their  teacher, 
visited  Italy  to  study  Greek ;  the  whole  six,  united  through 
manhood  and  life,  as  they  had  been  in  youth  and  at  school, 
are  regarded  as  the  founders  of  true  classical  literature 
among  the  Germans.  Their  scholastieo-monastic  establish- 
ments at  Deventer,  with  Zwoll  and  its  other  numerous  off- 
spring, which  rapidly  extended  themselves  over  the  north- 
west of  Europe  from  Artois  to  Silesia,  and  operated  power- 
fully both  in  a  moral  and  intellectual  view,  are  among  the 
characteristic  redeeming  features  of  that  time  ;  but  the  de- 
tails of  them  fall  not  within  our  present  limits.1 

If  now,  quitting  the  Cloister  and  Library,  we  look  abroad 
over  active  Life,  and  the  general  state  of  culture  and  spirit- 
ual endeavour  as  manifested  there,  we  have  on  all  hands  the 
cheering  prospect  of  a  society  in  full  progress.  The  Prac- 
tical Spirit,  which  had  pressed  forward  into  Poetry  itself, 
could  not  but  be  busy  and  successful  in  those  provinces 
where  its  home  specially  lies.  Among  the  Germans,  it  is 
true,  so  far  as  political  condition  was  concerned,  the  aspect 
of  affairs  had  not  changed  for  the  better.  The  Imperial 
Constitution  was  weakened  and  loosened  into  the  mere  sem- 
hlance  of  a  Government;  the  head  of  which  had  still  the 
1  See  Eicliliorn's  Gesckickte  der  Litter atur,  b.  ii.  s.  134. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


393 


title,  but  no  longer  the  reality  of  sovereign  power  ;  >o  that 
Germany,  ever  since 'the  times  of  Rudolf,  had,  as  it  were, 
ceased  to  be  one  great  nation,  and  become  a  disunited,  often 
conflicting  aggregate  of  small  nations.  Nay,  we  may  almost 
say,  of  petty  districts,  or  even  of  households :  for  now,  when 
every  pitiful  Baron  claimed  to  be  an  independent  potentate, 
and  exercised  his  divine  right  of  peace  and  war  too  often  in 
plundering  the  industrious  Burgher,  public  Law  could  no 
longer  vindicate  the  weak  against  the  strong :  except  the 
venerable  unwritten  code  of  Faustrecht  (Club-Law),  there 
was  no  other  valid.  On  every  steep  rock,  or  difficult  fast- 
ness, these  dread  sovereigns  perched  themselves  ;  studding 
the  country  with  innumerable  Raubschlbsser  (Robber- Tow- 
ers), which  nowT  in  the  eye  of  the  picturesque  tourist  look 
interesting  enough,  but  in  those  days  were  interesting  on  far 
other  grounds.  Herein  dwelt  a  race  of  persons,  proud,  ig- 
norant, hungry  ;  who,  boasting  of  an  endless  pedigree,  talked 
familiarly  of  living  on  the  produce  of  their  '  Saddles '  (vom. 
Sattel  zit  leben),  that  is  to  say,  by  the  profession  of  highway- 
man ;  for  which  unluckily,  as  just  hinted,  there  was  then  no 
effectual  gallows.  Some,  indeed,  might  plunder  as  the  eagle, 
others  as  the  vulture  and  crow  ;  but,  in  general,  from  men 
cultivating  that  walk  of  life,  no  profit  in  any  other  was  to  be 
looked  for.  Vain  was  it,  however,  for  the  Kaiser  to  publish 
edict  on  edict  against  them  ;  nay,  if  he  destroyed  their  Rob- 
ber-Towers, new  ones  were  built;  was  the  old  wolf  hunted 
down,  the  cub  had  escaped,  who  reappeared  when  his  teeth 
were  grown.  Not  till  industry  and  social  cultivation  had 
everywhere  spread,  and  risen  supreme,  could  that  brood,  in 
detail,  be  extirpated  or  tamed. 

Neither  was  this  miserable  defect  of  police  the  only  misery 
in  such  a  state  of  things.  For  the  saddle-eating  Baron,  even 
in  pacific  circumstances,  naturally  looked  down  on  the  fruit- 
producing  Burgher ;  who,  again,  feeling  himself  a  wiser, 
wealthier,  better  and  in  time  a  stronger  man,  ill  brooked 
this  procedure,  and  retaliated,  or,  by  quite  declining  such 


394 


MISCELLANIES. 


communications,  avoided  it.  Thus,  throughout  long  centuries, 
and  after  that  old  Code  of  Club-Law  had  been  wellnigh  abol- 
ished, the  effort  of  the  nation  was  still  divided  into  two 
courses ;  the  Noble  and  the  Citizen  would  not  work  to- 
gether, freely  imparting  and  receiving  their  several  gifts  ; 
but  the  culture  of  the  polite  arts,  and  that  of  the  useful  arts, 
had  to  proceed  with  mutual  disadvantage,  each  on  its  sepa- 
rate footing.  Indeed  that  supercilious  and  too  marked  dis- 
tinction of  ranks,  which  so  ridiculously  characterised  the 
Germans,  has  only  in  very  recent  times  disappeared. 

Nevertheless  here,  as  it  ever  does,  the  strength  of  the 
country  lay  in  the  middle  classes  ;  which  were  sound  and 
active,  and,  in  spite  of  all  these  hindrances,  daily  advancing. 
The  Free  Towns,  which,  in  Germany  as  elsewhere,  the  sov- 
ereign favoured,  held  within  their  walls  a  race  of  men  as 
brave  as  they  of  the  Robber-Towers,  but  exercising  their 
bravery  on  fitter  objects  ;  who,  by  degrees,  too,  ventured  into 
the  field  against  even  the  greatest  of  these  kinglets,  and  in 
many  a  stout  fight  taught  them  a  juristic  doctrine,  which  no 
head  with  all  its  helmets  was  too  thick  for  taking  in.  The 
Four  Forest  Cantons  had  already  testified  in  this  way  ;  their 
Tells  and  StaufFachers  preaching,  with  apostolic  blows  and 
knocks,  like  so  many  Luthers  ;  whereby,  from  their  remote 
Alpine  glens,  all  lands  and  all  times  have  heard  them,  and 
believed  them.  By  dint  of  such  logic  it  began  to  be  under- 
stood everywhere,  that  a  Man,  whether  clothed  in  purple 
cloaks  or  in  tanned  sheepskins,  wielding  the  sceptre  or  the 
oxgoad,  is  neither  Deity  nor  Beast,  but  simply  a  Man,  and 
must  comport  himself  accordingly. 

But  Commerce  of  itself  was  pouring  new  strength  into 
every  peaceable  community  ;  the  Hanse  League,  now  in  full 
vigour,  secured  the  fruits  of  industry  over  all  the  North. 
The  havens  of  the  Netherlands,  thronged  with  ships  from 
every  sea,  transmitted  or  collected  their  wide-borne  freight 
over  Germany  ;  where,  far  inland,  flourished  market-cities, 
with  their  cunning  workmen,  their  spacious  warehouses,  and 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


395 


merchants  who  in  opulence  vied  with  the  richest.  Except 
perhaps  in  the  close  vicinity  of  Robber-Towers,  and  even 
there  not  always  nor  altogether,  Diligence,  good  Order, 
peaceful  Abundance  were  everywhere  conspicuous  in  Ger- 
many. Petrarch  has  celebrated,  in  warm  terms,  the  beauties 
of  the  Rhine,  as  he  witnessed  them ;  the  rich,  embellished, 
cultivated  aspect  of  land  and  people  :  iEneas  Sylvius,  af- 
terwards Pope  Pius  the  Second,  expresses  himself,  in  the 
next  century,  with  still  greater  emphasis  :  he  says,  and  he 
could  judge,  having  seen  both,  '  that  the  King  of  Scotland 
'  did  not  live  so  handsomely  as  a  moderate  Citizen  of  Niirn- 
'berg:'  indeed  Conrad  Celtes,  another  contemporary  witness, 
informs  us,  touching  these  same  citizens,  that  their  wives  went 
abroad  loaded  with  the  richest  jewels,  that  '  most  of  their 
household  utensils  were  of  silver  and  gold.'  For,  as  iEneas 
Sylvius  adds,  '  their  mercantile  activity  is  astonishing  ;  the 
greater  part  of  the  German  nation  consists  of  merchants.' 
Thus  too,  in  Augsburg,  the  Fugger  family  which  sprang, 
like  that  of  the  Medici,  from  smallest  beginnings,  were  fast 
rising  into  that  height  of  commercial  greatness,  such  that 
Charles  V.,  in  viewing  the  Royal  Treasury  at  Paris,  could 
say,  "  I  have  a  weaver  in  Augsburg  able  to  buy  it  all  with 
his  own  gold." 1    With  less  satisfaction  the  same  haughty 

1  Charles  had  his  reasons  for  such  a  speech.  This  same  Anton  Fugger, 
to  whom  he  alluded  here,  had  often  stood  by  him  in  straits;  showing  a 
munificence  and  even  generosity  worthy  of  the  proudest  princes.  During 
the  celebrated  Diet  of  Augsburg,  in  1530,  the  Emperor  lodged  for  a  whole 
year  in  Anton's  house;  and  Anton  was  a  man  to  warm  his  Emperor  'at  a 
fire  of  cinnamon  wood,'  and  to  burn  therein  '  the  bonds  for  large  sums  ow- 
ing him  by  his  majesty.'  For  all  which,  Anton  and  his  kindred  had  count- 
ships  and  princeships  in  abundance;  also  the  right  to  coin  money,  but  no 
solid  bullion  to  exercise  such  right  on;  which,  however,  they  repeatedly 
did  on  bullion  of  their  own.  This  Anton  left  six  millions  of  gold-crowns 
in  cash ;  '  besides  precious  articles,  jewels,  properties  in  all  countries  of 
Europe,  and  both  the  Indies.'  The  Fuggers  had  ships  on  every  sea,  wag- 
ons on  every  highway;  they  worked  the  Carinthian  Mines;  even  Albrecht 
Durer's  Pictures  must  pass  through  their  warehouses  to  the  Italian  mar- 
ket.   However,  this  family  had  other  merits  than  their  mountains  of  metal, 


396 


MISCELLANIES. 


Monarch  had  to  see  his  own  Nephew  wedded  to  the  fair 
Philippine  Welser,  daughter  of  another  merchant  in  that 
city,  and  for  wisdom  and  beauty  the  paragon  of  her  time.1 
In  this  state  of  economical  prosperity,  Literature  and  Art, 
such  kinds  of  them  at  least  as  had  a  practical  application, 
could  not  want  encouragement.  It  is  mentioned  as  one  of 
the  furtherances  to  Classical  Learning  among  the  Germans, 
that  these  Free  Towns,  as  well  as  numerous  petty  Courts  of 
Princes,  exercising  a  sovereign  power,  required  individuals 
of  some  culture  to  conduct  their  Diplomacy ;  one  man  able 
at  least  to  write  a  handsome  Latin  style  was  an  indispensable 
requisite.  For  a  long  while  even  this  small  accomplishment 
was  not  to  be  acquired  in  Germany  ;  where,  such  had  been 

their  kindness  to  needy  Sovereigns,  and  even  their  all-embracing  spirit  of 
commercial  enterprise.  They  were  famed  for  acts  of  general  beneficence, 
and  did  much  charity  where  no  imperial  thanks  were  to  be  looked  for. 
To  found  Hospitals  and  Schools,  on  the  most  liberal  scale,  was  a  common 
thing  with  them.  In  the  sixteenth  century,  three  benevolent  brothers  of 
the  House  purchased  a  suburb  of  Augsburg;  rebuilt  it  with  small  commo- 
dious houses,  to  be  let  to  indigent  industrious  burghers  for  a  trifling  rent: 
this  is  the  well-known  Fuggerei,  which  still  existing,  with  its  own  walls 
and  gate,  maintains  their  name  in  daily  currency  there.  —  The  founder  of 
this  remarkable  family  did  actually  drive  the  shuttle  in  the  village  of  Gcig- 
gingen,  near  Augsburg,  about  the  middle  of  the  Fourteenth  Century  ;  '  but 
in  1619,'  says  the  Spiegel  der  Eliren  (Mirror  of  Honour).  '  the  noble  stem 
'had  so  branched  out,  that  there  were  forty-seven  Counts  and  Countesses 
'  belonging  to  it,  and  of  young  descendants  as  many  as  there  are  days  in 
'  the  year.'  Four  stout  boughs  of  this  same  noble  stem,  in  the  rank  of 
Princes,  still  subsist  and  nourish.  '  Thus  in  the  generous  FTiggers,'  says 
that  above-named  Mirror,  '  was  fulfilled  our  Saviour's  promise :  Give,  and 
'  it  shall  be  given  you.'  —  Conv.  Lexicon,  §  Fugger-Geschlechl. 

1  The  Welsers  were  of  patrician  descent,  and  had  for  many  centuries 
followed  commerce  at  Augsburg,  where,  next  only  to  the  Fuggers,  they 
played  a  high  part.  It  was  they,  for  example,  that,  at  their  own  charges, 
first  colonised  Venezuela;  that  equipped  the  first  German  ship  to  India, 
'  the  Journal  of  which  still  exists;'  they  united  with  the  Fuggers  to  lend 
Charles  V.  twelve  Tonnen  Gold,  1,200,000  Florins.  The  fair  Philippine, 
by  her  pure  charms  and  honest  wiles,  worked  out  a  reconciliation  with 
Kaiser  Ferdinand  the  First,  her  Father-in-law;  lived  thirty  happy  years 
with  her  husband;  and  had  medals  struck  by  him,  Diva  Philippine,  in 
honour  of  her,  when  (at  Inspruck  in  1580)  he  became  a  widower.  —  Conv. 
Lexicon,  $  Welser. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


397 


the  troublous  condition  of  the  Governments,  there  were  yet, 
in  the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century,  no  Universities  : 
however,  a  better  temper  and  better  fortune  began  at  length 
to  prevail  among  the  German  Sovereigns  ;  the  demands  of  the 
time  insisted  on  fulfilment.  The  University  of  Prague  was 
founded  in  1348,  that  of  Vienna  in  1364; 1  and  now,  as  if  to 
make  up  for  the  delay,  princes  and  communities  on  all  hands 
made  haste  to  establish  similar  Institutions ;  so  that  before 
the  end  of  the  century  we  find  three  others,  Heidelberg,  Co- 
logne, Erfurt  ;  in  the  course  of  the  next,  no  fewer  than  eight 
more,  of  which  Leipsig  (in  1404)  is  the  most  remarkable. 
Neither  did  this  honourable  zeal  grow  cool  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  or  even  down  to  our  own,  when  Germany,  boasting 
of  some  forty  great  Schools  and  twenty-two  Universities,  four 
of  which  date  within  the  last  thirty  years,  may  fairly  reckon 
itself  the  best  school-provided  country  in  Europe  ;  as,  indeed, 
those  who  in  any  measure  know  it,  are  aware  that  it  is  also 
indisputably  the  best  educated. 

Still  more  decisive  are  the  proofs  of  national  activity,  of 
progressive  culture,  among  the  Germans,  if  we  glance  at 
what  concerns  the  practical  Arts.  Apart  from  Universities 
and  learned  show,  there  has  always  dwelt,  in  those  same 
Niirnbergs  and  Augsburgs,  a  solid,  qnietly-perseverant 
spirit,  full  of  old  Teutonic  character  and  old  Teutonic 
sense  ;  whereby,  ever  and  anon,  from  under  the  bonnet  of 
some  rugged  German  artisan  or  staid  burgher,  this  and  the 
other  World-Invention  has  been  starting  forth,  where  such 

1  There  seems  to  be  some  controversy  about  the  precedence  here:  Bou- 
terwek  gives  Vienna,  with  a  date  1333,  as  the  earliest;  Koch  again  puts 
Heidelberg,  1346,  in  front;  the  dates  in  the  Text  profess  to  be  taken  from 
Meiner's  Geschichte  der  Entstehung  vnd  Entwickelung  der  ITohen  Schulen  lin- 
gers ErdQieih  (History  of  the  Origin  and  Development  of  High  Schools  in 
Europe),  Gottingen,  1802.  The  last-established  University  is  that  of 
Miinchen  (Munich),  in  1826.  Prussia  alone  has  21,000  Public  Schoolmas- 
ters, specially  trained  to  their  profession,  sometimes  even  sent  to  travel  for 
improvement,  at  the  cost  of  Government.  What  says  '  the  most  enlight- 
ened nation  in  the  world  '  to  this?  —  Eats  its  pudding,  and  says  little  or 
nothing. 


398 


MISCELLANIES. 


was  least  of  all  looked  for.  Indeed,  with  regard  to  practical 
Knowledge  in  general,  if  we  consider  the  present  history  and 
daily  life  of  mankind,  it  must  be  owned  that  while  each  nation 
has  contributed  a  share,  —  the  largest  share,  at  least  of  such 
shares  as  can  be  appropriated  and  fixed  on  any  special  con- 
tributor, belongs  to  Germany.  Copernic,  Hevel,  Kepler, 
Otto  Guericke,  are  of  other  times  ;  but  in  this  era  also  the 
spirit  of  Inquiry,  of  Invention,  was  especially  busy.  Gun- 
powder (of  the  thirteenth  century),  though  Milton  gives  the 
credit  of  it  to  Satan,  has  helped  mightily  to  lessen  the  hor- 
rors of  War  :  thus  much  at  least  must  be  admitted  in  its 
favour,  that  it  secures  the  dominion  of  civilised  over  savage 
man :  nay  hereby,  in  personal  contests,  not  brute  Strength, 
but  Courage  and  Ingenuity,  can  avail ;  for  the  Dwarf  and 
the  Giant  are  alike  strong  with  pistols  between  them.  Nei- 
ther can  Valour  now  find  its  best  arena  in  War,  in  Battle, 
which  is  henceforth  a  matter  of  calculation  and  strategy,  and 
the  soldier  a  chess-pawn  to  shoot  and  be  shot  at ;  whereby 
that  noble  quality  may  at  length  come  to  reserve  itself  for 
other  more  legitimate  occasions,  of  which,  in  this  our  Life- 
Battle  with  Destiny,  there  are  enough.  And  thus  Gunpow- 
der, if  it  spread  the  havoc  of  War,  mitigates  it  in  a  still  high- 
er degree  ;  like  some  Inoculation,  —  to  which  may  an  extir- 
pating Vaccination  one  day  succeed  !  It  ought  to  be  stated, 
however,  that  the  claim  of  Schwartz  to  the  original  invention 
is  dubious  ;  to  the  sole  invention  altogether  unfounded  :  the 
recipe  stands,  under  disguise,  in  the  writings  of  Roger  Bacon  ; 
the  article  itself  was  previously  known  in  the  East. 

Far  more  indisputable  are  the  advantages  of  Printing: 
and  if  the  story  of  Brother  Schwartz's  mortar  giving  fire 
and  driving  his  pestle  through  tlie  ceiling,  in  the  city  of 
Mentz,  as  the  painful  Monk  and  Alchymist  was  accidentally 
pounding  the  ingredients  of  our  first  Gunpowder,  is  but  a 
fable,  —  that  of  our  first  Book  being  printed  there  is  much 
better  ascertained.  Johann  Gutenberg  was  a  native  of 
Mentz ;  and   there,  in  company  with  Faust  and  Schbffer, 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


399 


appeal's  to  have  completed  his  invention  between  the  years 
1440  and  1449:  the  famous  'Forty-two  line  Bible'  was 
printed  there  in  1455.1  Of  this  noble  art,  which  is  like 
an  infinitely  intensated  organ  of  Speech,  whereby  the  Voice 
of  a  small  transitory  man  may  reach  not  only  through  all 
earthly  Space,  but  through  all  earthly  Time,  it  were  needless 
to  repeat  the  often-repeated  praises ;  or  speculate  on  the  prac- 
tical effects,  the  most  momentous  of  which  are,  perhaps,  but 
now  becoming  visible.  On  this  subject  of  the  Press,  and  its 
German  origin,  a  far  humbler  remark  may  be  in  place  here ; 
namely,  that  Rag-paper,  the  material  on  which  Printing 
works  and  lives,  was  also  invented  in  Germany  some  hun- 
dred and  fifty  years  before.  '  The  oldest  specimens  of  this 
•  article  yet  known  to  exist,'  says  Eichhorn,  '  are.  some  Docu- 
1  ments,  of  the  year  1318,  in  the  Archives  of  the  Hospital  at 
|  Kauf  beuern.  Breitkopf  (  Vom  Ursprung  der  Spielkarten, 
'  On  the  Origin  of  Cards)  has  demonstrated  our  claim  to 
f  the  invention  ;  and  that  France  and  England  borrowed  it 
'  from  Germany,  and  Spain  from  Italy.' 2 

On  the  invention  of  Printing  there  followed  naturally  a 
multiplication  of  Books,  and  a  new  activity,  which  has  ever 
since  proceeded  at  an  accelerating  rate,  in  the  business  of 
Literature  ;  but  for  the  present,  no  change  in  its  character 
or  objects.  Those  Universities,  and  other  Establishments 
and  Improvements,  were  so  many  tools  which  the  spirit  of 
the  time  had  devised,  not  for  working  out  new  paths,  which 
were  their  ulterior  issue,  but  in  the  mean  while  for  proceeding 
more  commodiously  on  the  old  path.  In  the  Prague  Uni- 
versity, it  is  true,  whither  WicklifFe's  writings  had  found 
their  way,  a  Teacher  of  more  earnest  tone  had  risen,  in  the 
person  of  John  Huss,  Rector  there  ;  whose  Books,  Of  the 

1  As  to  the  Dutch  claim,  it  rests  only  on  vague  local  traditions,  which 
were  never  heard  of  publicly  till  their  Lorenz  Coster  had  been  dead 
almost  a  hundred  and  fifty  years;  so  that,  out  of  Holland,  it  finds  few- 
partisans. 

2  B.  ii.  s.  91. — '  The  first  German  Paper-mill  we  have  sure  account  of,' 
says  Koch,  1  worked  at  Niirnberg  in  1390.'  —  Vol.  i.  p.  35. 


400 


MISCELLANIES. 


Six  Errors  and  Of  the  Church,  still  more  his  energetic, 
zealously  polemical  Discourses  to  the  people,  were  yet  un- 
exampled on  the  Continent.  The  shameful  murder  of  this 
man,  who  lived  and  died  as  beseemed  a  Martyr  ;  and  the 
stern  vengeance  which  his  countrymen  took  for  it,  unhap- 
pily not  on  the  Constance  Cardinals,  but  on  less  offensive 
Bohemian  Catholics,  kept  up  during  twenty  years,  on  the 
Eastern  Border  of  Germany,  an  agitating  tumult,  not  only  of 
opinion,  but  of  action  :  however,  the  fierce,  indomitable  Zisca 
being  called  away,  and  the  pusillanimous  Emperor  offering 
terms,  which,  indeed,  he  did  not  keep,  this  uproar  subsided, 
and  the  national  activity  proceeded  in  its  former  course. 

In  German  Literature,  during  those  years,  nothing  pre- 
sents itself  as  worthy  of  notice  here.  Chronicles  were  writ- 
ten ;  Class-books  for  the  studious,  edifying  Homilies,  in 
varied  guise,  for  the  busy,  were  compiled  :  a  few  Books  of 
Travels  make  their  appearance,  among  which  Translations 
from  our  too  fabulous  countryman,  Mandeville,  are  perhaps 
the  most  remarkable.  For  the  rest,  Life  continued  to  be 
looked  at  less  with  poetic  admiration,  than  in  a  spirit  of 
observation  and  comparison :  not  without  many  a  protest 
against  clerical  and  secular  error;  such,  however,  seldom 
rising  into  the  style  of  grave  hate  and  hostility,  but  play- 
fully expressing  themselves  in  satire.  The  old  effort  tow- 
ards the  Useful ;  in  Literature,  the  old  prevalence  of  the 
Didactic,  especially  of  the  vEsopic,  is  everywhere  manifest. 
Of  this  iEsopic  spirit,  what  phases  it  successively  assumed, 
and  its  significance  in  these,  there  were  much  to  be  said. 
However,  in  place  of  multiplying  smaller  instances  and 
aspects,  let  us  now  take  up  the  highest;  and  with  the  best 
of  all  Apologues,  Reynard  the  Fox,  terminate  our  survey  of 
that  Fable-loviug  time. 

The  story  of  Reinecle  Fuchs,  or,  to  give  it  the  original 
Low-German  name,  Reineke  de  Fos,  is,  more  than  any 
other,  a  truly  European  performance :  for  some  centuries, 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


401 


a  universal  household  possession  and  secular  Bible,  read 
everywhere,  in  the  palace  and  the  hut :  it  still  interests  us, 
moreover,  by  its  intrinsic  worth,  being,  on  the  whole,  the 
most  poetical  and  meritorious  production  of  our  "Western 
World  in  that  kind  ;  or  perhaps  of  the  whole  "World,  though, 
in  such  matters,'  the  West  has  generally  yielded  to,  and 
learned  from,  the  East. 

Touching  the  origin  of  this  Book,  as  often  happens  in  like 
cases,  there  is  a  controversy,  perplexed  not  only  by  inevi- 
table ignorance,  but  also  by  anger  and  false  patriotism.  Into 
this  vexed  sea  we  have  happily  no  call  to  venture  ;  and 
shall  merely  glance  for  a  moment,  from  the  firm  land,  where 
all  that  can  specially  concern  us  in  the  matter  stands  rescued 
and  safe.  The  oldest  printed  Edition  of  our  actual  Reynard 
is  that  of  Liibeck,  in  1498  ;  of  which  there  is  a  copy,  under- 
stood to  be  the  only  one,  still  extant  in  the  "Wolfenbiittel 
Library.  This  oldest  Edition  is  in  the  Low-German  or 
Saxon  tongue,  and  appears  to  have  been  produced  by  Hin- 
rek  van  Alkmer,  who  in  the  preface  calls  himself  '  School- 
'  master  and  Tutor  -  of  that  noble  virtuous  Prince  and  Lord, 
t  the  Duke  of  Lorraine  ; '  and  says  farther,  that  by  order  of 
this  same  worthy  sovereign,  he  '  sought  out  and  rendered  the 
'  present  Book  from  Walloon  and  French  tongue  into  Ger- 
'  man,  to  the  praise  and  honour  of  God,  and  wholesome 
'  edification  of  whoso  readeth  therein.'  "Which  candid  and 
business-like  statement  would  doubtless  have  continued  to 
yield  entire  satisfaction  ;  had  it  not  been  that,  in  modern 
days,  and  while  this  first  Liibeck  Edition  was  still  lying  in 
its  dusty  recess  unknown  to  Bibliomaniacs,  another  account, 
dated  some  hundred  years  later,  and  supported  by  a  little 
subsequent  hearsay,  had  been  raked  up :  how  the  real  Au- 
thor was  Nicholas  Baumann,  Professor  at  Rostock  ;  how 
he  had  been  Secretary  to  the  Duke  of  Juliers,  but  was 
driven  from  his  service  by  wicked  cabals  ;  and  so  in  re- 
venge composed  this  satirical  adumbration  of  the  Juliers 
Court ;  putting  on  the  title-page,  to  avoid  consequences, 

vol.  n.  26 


402 


MISCELLANIES- 


the  feigned  tale  of  its  being  rendered  from  the  French  and 
Walloon  tongue,  and  the  feigned  name  of  Hinrek  van  Alk- 
mer,  who,  for  the  rest,  was  never  Schoolmaster  and  Tutor 
at  Lorraine,  or  anywhere  else,  but  a  mere  man  of  straw, 
created  for  the  nonce  out  of  so  many  Letters  of  the  Alpha- 
bet. Hereupon  excessive  debate,  and  a  learned  sharp-shoot- 
ing, with  victory-shouts  on  both  sides ;  into  which  we  nowise 
enter.  Some  touch  of  human  sympathy  does  draw  us  tow- 
ards Hinrek,  whom,  if  he  was  once  a  real  man,  with  bones 
and  sinews,  stomach  and  provender-scrip,  it  is  mournful  to 
see  evaporated  away  into  mere  vowels  and  consonants : 
however,  beyond  a  kind  wish,  we  can  give  him  no  help. 
In  Literary  History,  except  on  this  one  occasion,  as  seems 
indisputable  enough,  he  is  nowhere  mentioned  or  hinted  at. 

Leaving  Hinrek  and  Nicolaus,  then,  to  fight  out  their 
quarrel  as  they  may,  wre  remark  that  the  clearest  issue  of 
it  would  throw  little  light  on  the  origin  of  Reineche.  The 
victor  could  at  most  claim  to  be  the  first.  German  redactor 
of  this  Fable,  and  the  happiest ;  whose  work  had  superseded 
and  obliterated  all  preceding  ones  whatsoever ;  but  nowise  to 
be  the  inventor  thereof,  who  must  be  sought  for  in  a  much 
remoter  period.  There  are  even  two  printed  versions  of  the 
Tale,  prior  in  date  to  this  of  Lubeek  :  a  Dutch  one,  at  Delft, 
in  1484;  and  one  by  Caxton  in  English,  in  1481,  which 
seems  to  be  the  earliest  of  all.1  These  two  differ  essentially 
from  Hinrek's  ;  still  more  so  does  the  French  Roman  da  nou- 

1  Caxton's  Edition,  a  copy  of  which  is  in  the  British  Museum,  bears 
title:  Hystorye  of  Reynart  the  Fore  ;  and  begins  thus  :  '  It  was  aboute  the 
'  tyme  of  Pentecoste  or  Whytsontyde  that  the  wodes  comynly  be  lusty 
'  and  gladsome,  and  the  trees  clad  with  levys  and  blossoms,  and  the 
'  grounds  with  herbes  and  flowers  sweete  smellyng; '  —  where,  as  in  many 
other  passages,  the  fact  that  Caxton  and  Alkmer  had  the  same  original  be- 
fore them  is  manifest  enough.  Our  venerable  Printer  says  in  conclusion: 
'  I  have  not  added  ne  mynnsshed  but  have  followed  as  nyghe  as  I  can  my 
'  copye  whych  was  in  dutche;  and  by  me  Willm  Caxton  translated  in  to 
'this  rude  ami  symple  englyssh  in  thabhey  of  Westminster,  and  t'vn- 
'  nyshed  the  vi  daye  of  Juyn  the  yere  of  our  lord  14S1,  the  21  yere  of  the 
'  regne  of  Kynge  Edward  the  iiijth.' 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


403 


veaic  Menard,  composed  '  by  Jacquemars  Gielee  at  Lisle, 
about  the  year  1290/  which  yet  exists  in  manuscript:  how- 
ever, they  sufficiently  verify  that  statement,  by  some  sup- 
posed to  be  feigned,  of  the  German  redactor's  having 
'sought  and  rendered'  his  work  from  the  Walloon  and 
French ;  in  which  latter  tongue,  as  we  shall  soon  see,  some 
shadow  of  it  had  been  known  and  popular,  long  centuries 
before  that  time.  For  besides  Gielee's  work,  we  have  a 
Menard  Couronne  of  still  earlier,  a  Menard  Contrefait  of 
somewhat  later  date  :  and  Chroniclers  inform  us  that,  at 
the  noted  Festival  given  by  Philip  the  Fair,  in  the  begin- 
ning of  the  fourteenth  century,  among  the  di'amatic  enter- 
tainments, was  a  whole  Life  of  Reynard ;  wherein  it  must 
not  surprise  us  that  he  '  ended  by  becoming  Pope,  and  still, 
under  the  Tiara,  continued  to  eat  poultry.'  Nay,  curious 
inquirers  have  discovered,  on  the  French  and  German  bor- 
ders, some  vestige  of  the  Story  even  in  Carlovingian  times; 
which,  indeed,  again  makes  it  a  German  original :  they  will 
have  it  that  a  certain  Reinhard,  or  Reinecke,  Duke  of  Lor- 
raine, who,  in  the  ninth  century,  by  his  craft  and  exhaust- 
less  stratagems  worked  strange  mischief  in  that  region,  many 
times  overreaching  King  Zwentibald  himself,  and  at  last,  in 
his  stronghold  of  Durfos,  proving  impregnable  to  him, — 
had  in  satirical  songs  of  that  period  been  celebrated  as  a  fox, 
as  Meinhard  the  Fox,  and  so  given  rise  afar  off  to  this  Apo- 
logue, at  least  to  the  title  of  it.  The  name  Isegrim,  as  ap- 
plied to  the  Wolf,  these  same  speculators  deduce  from  an 
Austrian  Count  Isengrin,  who,  in  those  old  days,  had  re- 
volted against  Kaiser  Arnulph,  and  otherwise  exhibited  too 
wolfish  a  disposition.  Certain  it  is,  at  least,  that  both  desig- 
nations were  in  universal  use  during  the  twelfth  century ; 
they  occur,  for  example,  in  one  of  the  two  sirventes  which 
our  Coeur-de-Lion  has  left  us :  'Ye  have  promised  me 
fidelity,'  says  he,  '  but  ye  have  kept  it  as  the  Wolf  did  to 
the  Fox,'  as  Tsangrin  did  to  Meinhart.1    Nay,  perhaps  the 

1  Flogel  (iii.  31),  who  quotes  the  Hhtoire  Liiteraire  des  Troubadours  Li. 
p.  63. 


404 


MISCELLANIES. 


ancient  circulation  of  some  such  Song  or  Tale,  among  the 
French,  is  best  of  all  evinced  by  the  fact  that  this  same 
Reinhart,  or  Renard,  is  still  the  only  word  in  their  language 
for  Fox  ;  and  thus,  strangely  enough,  the  Proper  may  have 
become  an  Appellative  ;  and  sly  Duke  Reinhart,  at  an  era 
when  the  French  tongue  was  first  evolving  itself  from  the 
rubbish  of  Latin  and  German,  have  insinuated  his  name 
into  Natural  as  well  as  Political  History. 

From  all  which,  so  much  at  least  would  appear :  That 
the  Fable  of  Reynard  the  Fox,  which  in  the  German  ver- 
sion we  behold  completed,  nowise  derived  its  completeness 
from  the  individual  there  named  Hinrek  van  Alkmer,  or 
from  any  other  individual  or  people ;  but  rather,  that  being 
in  old  times  universally  current,  it  was  taken  up  by  poets 
and  satirists  of  all  countries ;  from  each  received  some  ac- 
cession or  improvement ;  and  properly  has  no  single  author. 
We  must  observe,  however,  that  as  yet  it  had  attained  no 
fixation  or  consistency  ;  no  version  was  decidedly  preferred 
to  every  other.  Caxton's  and  the  Dutch  appear,  at  best, 
but  as  the  skeleton  of  what  afterwards  became  a  body  ;  of 
the  old  Walloon  version,  said  to  have  been  discovered  lately, 
we  are  taught  to  entertain  a  similar  opinion  : 1  in  the  exist- 
ing French  versions,  which  are  all  older,  either  in  GieleVs, 
or  in  the  others,  there  is  even  less  analogy.  Loosely  con- 
joined, therefore,  and  only  in  the  state  of  dry  bones,  was  it 
that  Hinrek,  or  Nicolaus,  or  some  Lower-Saxon  whoever 
he  might  be,  found  the  story  ;  and  blowing  on  it  with  the 
breath  of  genius,  raised  it  up  into  a  consistent  Fable.  Many 
additions  and  some  exclusions  he  must  have  made;  was 
probably  enough  assisted  by  personal  experience  of  a  Court, 
whether  that  of  Juliers  or  some  other  ;  perhaps  also  he  ad- 
mitted personal  allusions,  and  doubtless  many  an  oblique 
glance  at  existing  things  :  and  thus  was  produced  the  Low- 
German  Reineke  de  Fos ;  which  version,  shortly  after  its 
appearance,  had  extinguished  all  the  rest,  and  come  to  be, 
1  See  Scheller:  Rcincke  de  Fos,  To  Brunswylc,  1825;  Vorrede. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


405 


what  it  still  is,  the  so]e  veritable  representative  of  Reynard, 
inasmuch  as  all  subsequent  translations  and  editions  have 
derived  themselves  from  it. 

The  farther  history  of  Reinecke  is  easily  traced.  In  this 
new  guise,  it  spread  abroad  over  all  the  world,  with  a 
scarcely  exampled  rapidity ;  fixing  itself  also  as  a  firm  pos- 
session in  most  countries,  where,  indeed,  in  this  character, 
we  still  find  it.  It  was  printed  and  rendered,  innumerable 
times :  in  the  original  dialect  alone,  the  last  Editor  has  reck- 
oned up  more  than  twenty  Editions  ;  on  one  of  which,  for 
example,  we  find  such  a  name  as  that  of  Heinrich  Voss.  It 
was  first  translated  into  High-German  in  1545  ;  into  Latin 
in  1567,  by  Hartmann  Schopper,  whose  smooth  style  and 
rough  fortune  keep  him  in  memory  with  Scholars : 1  a  new 
version  into  short  German  verse  appeared  next  century  ;  in 
our  own  times,  Goethe  has  not  disdained  to  reproduce  it,  by 
means  of  his  own,  in  a  third  shape :  of  Soltau's  version,  into 
literal  doggerel,  we  have  already  testified.  Long  genera- 
tions before,  it  had  been  manufactured  into  Prose,  for  the 

1  While  engaged  in  this  Translation,  at  Freiburg  in  Baden,  he  was  im- 
pressed as  a  soldier,  and  carried,  apparently  in  fetters,  to  Vienna,  having 
given  his  work  to  another  to  finish.  At  Vienna  he  stood  not  long  in  the 
ranks;  having  fallen  violently  sick,  and  being  thrown  out  in  the  streets 
to  recover  there.  He  says,  '  he  was  without  bed,  and  had  to  seek  quar- 
ters on  the  muddy  pavement  in  a  Barrel.'  Here  too,  in  the  night,  some 
excessively  straitened  individual  stole  from  him  his  cloak  and  sabre. 
However,  men  were  not  all  hysenas:  one  Josias  Hufnagel,  unknown  to 
him,  but  to  whom  by  his  writings  he  was  known,  took  him  under  his 
roof,  procured  medical  assistance,  equipped  him  anew;  so  that  '  in  the 
'  harvest-season,  being  half-cured,  he  could  return  or  rather  recrawl  to 
'  Frankfort  on  the  Mayn.'  There  too  'a  Magister  Johann  Cuipius,  Chris- 
'  Kan  Egenolph's  son-in-law,  kindly  received  him,'  and  encouraged  him 
to  finish  his  Translation;  as  accordingly  he  did,  dedicating  it  to  the  Em- 
peror, with  doleful  complaints,  fruitless  or  not  is  iinknown.  For  now 
poor  Hartmann,  no  longer  an  Autobiographer,  quite  vanishes,  and  we  can 
understand  only  that  he  laid  his  wearied  back  one  day  in  a  most  still  bed, 

where  the  blanket  of  the  Night  softly  enwrapped  him  and  all  his  woes.  

His  Book  is  entitled  Opus  poeticum  de  admirab'di  Fallacia  et  Aslulid  Vulpe- 
culce  Reinekes,  &c.  &c;  and  in  the  Dedication  and  Preface  contains  all 
these  details. 


406 


MISCELLANIES. 


use  of  the  people,  and  was  sold  on  stalls  ;  where  still,  with 
the  needful  changes  in  spelling,  and  printed  on  grayest 
paper,  it  tempts  the  speculative  eye. 

Thus  has  our  old  Fable,  rising  like  some  River  in  the  re- 
mote distance,  from  obscure  rivulets,  gathered  strength  out 
of  every  valley,  out  of  every  country,  as  it  rolled  on.  It  is 
European  in  two  sens%s  ;  for  as  all  Europe  contributed  to 
it,  so  all  Europe  has  enjoyed  it.  Among  the  Germans, 
Reinecke  Fuchs  was  long  a  House-book  and  universal  Best- 
companion  :  it  has  been  lectured  on  in  the  Universities, 
quoted  in  Imperial  Council-halls  ;  it  lay  on  the  toilette  of 
Princesses  ;  and  was  thumbed  to  pieces  on  the  bench  of 
the  Artisan  ;  we  hear  of  grave  men  ranking  it  only  next  to 
the  Bible.  Neither,  as  we  said,  was  its  popularity  confined 
to  home ;  Translations  erelong  appeared  in  French,  Ital- 
ian, Danish,  Swedish,  Dutch,  English  : 1  nor  was  that  same 
stall-honour,  which  has  been  reckoned  the  truest  literary 
celebrity,  refused  it  here ;  perhaps  many  a  reader  of  these 
pages  may,  like  the  writer  of  them,  recollect  the  hours, 
when,  hidden  from  unfeeling  gaze  of  pedagogue,  he  swal- 
lowed The  most  pleasant  and  delightful  History  of  Reynard 
the  Fox,  like  stolen  waters,  with  a  timorous  joy. 

So  much  for  the  outward  fortunes  of  this  remarkable 
Book.  It  comes  before  us  with  a  character  such  as  can 
belong  only  to  a  very  few  ;  that  of  being  a  true  Wo  rid 's- 
Book,  which  through  centuries  was  everywhere  at  home, 
the  spirit  of  which  diffused  itself  into  all  languages  and  all 

1  Besides  Caxton's  original,  of  which  little  is  known  among  us  but  the 
name,  we  have  two  versions;  one  in  1667,  'with  excellent  Morals  and 
Expositions,'  which  was  reprinted  in  1681,  and  followed  in  1684  by  a  Con- 
tinuation, called  the  Shifts  of  Reynardine  the  son  of  Reynard,  of  English 
growth;  another  in  1708, slightly  altered  from  the  former,  explaining  what 
appears  doubtful  or  allegorical;  'it  being  originally  written,'  says  the 
brave  Editor  elsewhere,  'by  an  eminent  Statesman  of  the  German  Em- 
'  pire,  to  show  some  Men  their  Follies,  and  correct  the  Vices  of  the  Times 
'he  lived  in.'  Not  only  Reynardine,  but  a  second  Appendix,  Cawood  the 
Rook,  appears  here;  also  there  are  'curious  Devices,  or  Pictures.'  —  Of 
Editions  '  printed  for  the  Flying-Stationers '  we  say  nothing. 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


407 


minds.  These  quaint  iEsopic  figures  have  painted  them- 
selves in  innumerable  heads ;  that  rough,  deep-lying  hu- 
mour has  been  the  laughter  of  many  generations.  So  that, 
at  worst,  we  must  regard  this  Reineche  as  an  ancient  Idol, 
once  worshipped,  and  still  interesting  for  that  circumstance, 
were  the  sculpture  never  so  rude.  We  can  love  it,  more- 
over, as  being  indigenous,  wholly  of  our  own  creation :  it 
sprang  up  from  European  sense  and  character,  and  was  a 
faithful  type  and  organ  of  these. 

But  independently  of  all  extrinsic  considerations,  this 
Fable  of  Reineche  may  challenge  a  judgment  on  its  own 
merits.  Cunningly  constructed,  and  not  without  a  true 
poetic  life,  we  must  admit  it  to  be :  great  power  of  concep- 
tion and  invention,  great  pictorial  fidelity,  a  warm,  sunny 
tone  of  colouring,  are  manifest  enough.  It  is  full  of  broad 
rustic  mirth ;  inexhaustible  in  comic  devices  ;  a  World- 
Saturnalia,  where  Wolves  tonsured  into  Monks,  and  nigh 
starved  by  short  commons,  Foxes  pilgriming  to  Rome  for 
absolution,  Cocks  pleading  at  the  judgment-bar,  make  strange 
mummery.  Nor  is  this  wild  Parody  of  Human  Life  with- 
out its  meaning  and  moral :  it  is  an  air-pageant  from  Fan- 
cy's dream-grotto,  yet  wisdom  lurks  in  it ;  as  we  gaze,  the 
vision  becomes  poetic  and  prophetic.  A  true  Irony  must 
have  dwelt  in  the  Poet's  heart  and  head ;  here,  under  gro- 
tescme  shadows,  he  gives  us  the  sadder  picture  of  Reality ; 
yet  for  us  without  sadness ;  his  figures  mask  themselves 
in  uncouth,  bestial  vizards,  and  enact,  gambolling ;  their 
Tragedy  dissolves  into  sardonic  grins.  He  has  a  deep, 
heartfelt  Humour,  sporting  with  the  world  and  its  evils  in 
kind  mockery  :  this  is  the  poetic  soul,  round  which  the  out- 
ward material  has  fashioned  itself  into  living  coherence. 
And  so,  in  that  rude  old  Apologue,  we  have  still  a  mirror, 
though  now  tarnished  and  timeworn,  of  true  magic  reality ; 
and  can  discern  there,  in  cunning  reflex,  some  image  both 
of  our  destiny  and  of  our  duty  :  for  now,  as  then,  Prudence 
is  the  only  virtue  sure  of  its  reward,  and  Cunning  triumphs 


408 


MISCELLANIES. 


where  Honesty  is  worsted ;  and  now,  as  then,  it  is  the  wise 
man's  part  to  know  this,  and  cheerfully  look  for  it,  and  cheer- 
fully defy  it : 

Ut  imlpis  aduhtio 

Here  through  his  own  world  moveth, 
Sic  hominis  et  ratio 

Most  like  to  Reynard's  proveth. 

Ui  vulpis  adulatio 

Nu  in  de  werlde  blikket  : 
Sic  hominis  et  ratio 

Gelyk  dem  Fos  sik  shikket. 

Motto  to  Reineke. 

If  Reinecke  is  nowise  a  perfect  Comic  Epos,  it  has  various 
features  of  such,  and  above  all,  a  genuine  Epic  spirit,  which 
is  the  rarest  feature. 

Of  the  Fable,  and  its  incidents  and  structure,  it  is  perhaps 
superfluous  to  offer  any  sketch  ;  to  most  readers  the  whole  may 
be  already  familiar.  How  Noble,  King  of  the  Beasts,  hold- 
ing a  solemn  Court  one  Whitsuntide,  is  deafened  on  all  hands 
with  complaints  against  Reinecke  ;  Hinze  the  Cat,  Lampe 
the  Hare,  Isegrim  the  "Wolf,  with  innumerable  others,  hav- 
ing suffered  from  his  villany,  Isegrim  especially,  in  a  point 
which  most  keenly  touches  honour ;  nay,  Chanticleer  the 
Cock  (Henning  de  Hane),  amid  bitterest  wail,  appearing 
even  with  the  corpus  delicti,  the  body  of  one  of  his  children, 
whom  that  arch-knave  has  feloniously  murdered  with  intent 
to  eat.  How  his  indignant  Majesty  thereupon  despatches 
Bruin  the  Bear  to  cite  the  delinquent  in  the  King's  name ; 
how  Bruin,  inveigled  into  a  Honey-expedition,  returns  with- 
out his  errand,  without  his  ears,  almost  without  his  life ; 
Hinze  the  Cat,  in  a  subsequent  expedition,  faring  no  better. 
How  at  last  Reinecke,  that  he  may  not  have  to  stand  actual 
siege  in  his  fortress  of  Malapertus,  does  appear  for  trial,  and 
is  about  to  be  hanged,  but  on  the  gallows-ladder  makes  a 
speech  unrivalled  in  forensic  eloquence,  and  saves  his  life  ; 
nay,  having  incidentally  hinted  at  some  Treasures,  the  hid- 
ing-place of  which  is  well  known  to  him,  rises  into  high 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


409 


favour ;  is  permitted  to  depart  on  that  pious  pilgrimage  to 
Rome  he  has  so  much  at  heart,  and  furnished  even  with 
shoes,  cut  from  the  living  hides  of  Isegrim  and  Isegrim's 
much-injured  spouse,  his  worst  enemies.  How,  the  Treas- 
ures not  making  their  appearance,  but  only  new  misdeeds, 
he  is  again  haled  to  judgment ;  again  glozes  the  general  ear 
with  sweetest  speeches ;  at  length,  being  challenged  to  it, 
fights  Isegrim  in  knightly  tourney,  and  by  the  cunningest, 
though  the  most  unchivalrous  method,  not  to  be  further 
specified  in  polite  writing,  carries  off  a  complete  victory  ; 
and  having  thus,  by  wager  of  battle,  manifested  his  inno- 
cence, is  overloaded  with  royal  favour,  created  Chancellor, 
and  Pilot  to  weather  the  Storm  ;  and  so,  in  universal 
honour  and  authority,  reaps  the  fair  fruit  of  his  gifts  and 
labours : 

Whereby  shall  each  to  wisdom  turn, 
Evil  eschew  and  virtue  learn, 
Therefore  was  this  same  story  wrote, 
That  is  its  aim,  and  other  not. 
This  Book  for  little  price  is  sold, 
But  image  clear  of  world  doth  hold ; 
Whoso  into  the  world  would  look, 
My  counsel  is,  —  he  buy  this  book. 

So  endeth  Reynard  Fox's  story: 
God  help  us  all  to  heavenly  glory ! 

It  has  been  objected  that  the  Animals  in  Reinecke  are  not 
Animals,  but  Men  disguised ;  to  which  objection,  except  in  so 
far  as  grounded  on  the  necessary  indubitable  fact  that  this  is 
an  Apologue  or  emblematic  Fable,  and  no  Chapter  of  Nat- 
ural History,  we  cannot  in  any  considerable  degree  accede. 
Nay,  that  very  contrast  between  Object  and  Effort,  where 
the  Passions  of  men  develop  themselves  on  the  Interests 
of  animals,  and  the  whole  is  huddled  together  in  chaotic 
mockery,  is  a  main  charm  of  the  picture.  For  the  rest,  we 
should  rather  say,  these  bestial  characters  were  moderately 
well  sustained  :  the  vehement,  futile  vociferation  of  Chanti- 
cleer ;  the  hysterical  promptitude,  and  earnest  profession  and 
protestation  of  poor  Lampe  the  Hare;  the  thickheaded  fe- 


410 


MISCELLANIES. 


rocity  of  Isegrim  ;  the  sluggish,  gluttonous  opacity  of  Bruin  ; 
above  all,  the  craft,  the  tact  and  inexhaustible  knavish  adroit- 
ness of  Reinecke  himself,  are  in  strict  accuracy  of  costume. 
Often  also  their  situations  and  occupations  are  bestial  enough. 
What  quantities  of  bacon  and  other  proviant  do  Isegrim  and 
Reinecke  forage ;  Reinecke  contributing  the  scheme,  —  for  the 
two  were  then  in  partnership,  —  and  Isegrim  paying  the  shot 
in  broken  bones !  What  more  characteristic  then  the  fate  of 
Bruin,  when  ill-counselled,  he  introduces  his  stupid  head  into 
Rustefill's  half-split  log ;  has  the  wedges  whisked  away,  and 
stands  clutched  there,  as  in  a  vice,  and  uselessly  roaring; 
disappointed  of  honey,  sure  only  of  a  beating  without  paral- 
lel !  Not  to  forget  the  Mare,  whom,  addressing  her  by  the 
title  of  Goodwife,  with  all  politeness,  Isegrim,  sore-pinched 
with  hunger,  asks  whether  she  will  sell  her  foal :  she  an- 
swers, that  the  price  is  written  on  her  hinder  hoof ;  which 
document  the  intending  purchaser,  being  '  an  Erfurt  gradu- 
ate,' declares  his  full  ability  to  read  ;  but  finds  there  no  writ- 
ing, or  print,  —  save  only  the  print  of  six  horsenails  on  his 
own  mauled  visage.  And  abundance  of  the  like  ;  sufficient 
to  excuse  our  old  Epos  on  this  head,  or  altogether  justify  it. 
Another  objection,  that,  namely,  which  points  to  the  great 
and  excessive  coarseness  of  the  work  here  and  there,  it  can- 
not so  readily  turn  aside ;  being  indeed  rude,  old-fashioned, 
and  homespun,  apt  even  to  draggle  in  the  mire :  neither  are 
its  occasional  dulness  and  tediousness  to  be  denied ;  but  only 
to  be  set  against  its  frequent  terseness  and  strength,  and  par- 
doned as  the  product  of  poor  humanity,  from  whose  hands 
nothing,  not  even  a  Reineke  de  Fos,  comes  perfect. 

He  who  would  read,  and  still  understand  this  old  Apologue, 
must  apply  to  Goethe,  whose  version,  for  poetical  use,  we 
have  found  infinitely  the  best ;  like  some  copy  of  an  ancient, 
bedimmed,  half-obliterated  woodcut,  but  new-done  on  steel, 
on  India-paper,  with  all  manner  of  graceful  yet  appropriate 
appendages.  Nevertheless,  the  old  Low-German  original  has 
also  a  certain  charm,  and  simply  as  the  original,  Avould  claim 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


411 


some  notice.  It  is  reckoned  greatly  the  best  performance 
that  was  ever  brought  out  in  that  dialect  ;  interesting, 
moreover,  in  a  philological  point  of  view,  especially  to  us 
English ;  being  properly  the  language  of  our  old  Saxon 
Fatherland ;  and  still  curiously  like  our  own,  though  the 
two,  for  some  twelve  centuries,  have  had  no  brotherly  com- 
munication. One  short  specimen,  with  the  most  verbal  trans- 
lation, we  shall  insert  here,  and  then  have  done  with  Rei- 
necke  : 

'  De  Greving  was  Reinkea  broder's  sone, 
The  Badger  was  Reinke's  brot}ier,s  son, 
De  sprak  do,  un  was  s§r  kone. 
He  spoke  there,  and  was  (sore)  very  (keen)  bold. 
He  forantworde  in  dem  Hove  den  Fos, 
Be  (for-answered)  defended  in  the  Court  the  Fox, 
De  dog  was  sSr  falsh  un  16s. 
That  (though)  yet  teas  very  false  and  loose. 
He  sprak  to  deme  Wulve  also  ford : 
He  spoke  to  the  Wolf  so  forth  : 
Here  Isegrim,  it  is  em  oldspraken  word, 
Master  Isegrim,  it  is  an  old-spoken  word, 
Des  fyendes  mund  shaffet  selden  from ! 

The  (f  end's)  enemy's  mouth  (shapeth)  bringeth  seldom  advantage  ! 
So  do  ji  ok  by  Reinken,  minem  6m. 
So  do  ye  (eke)  too  by  Reinke,  mine  (erne)  uncle. 
Were  he  so  wol  alse  ji  hyr  to  Hove, 
Were  he  as  well  as  ye  here  at  Court, 
Un  stunde  he  also  in  des  Koninge's  love, 
And  stood  he  so  in  the  King's  favour, 
Here  Isegrim,  alse  ji  dot, 
Master  Isegrim,  as  ye  do, 
It  sholde  ju  nigt  diinken  god, 
It  should  you  not  (think)  seem  good, 
Dat  ji  en  hyr  alsus  forspraken 
That  ye  him  here  so  forspake 
Un  de  olden  stukke  hyr  forraken. 
And  the  old  tricks  here  forth-raked. 
Men  dat  kwerde,  dat  ji  Reinken  havveu  gedan, 
But  the  ill  that  ye  Reinke  have  done, 
Dat  late  ji  al  agter  stan. 
That  let  ye  all  (after  stand)  stand  by. 
It  is  nog  etliken  heren  wol  kund, 
It  is  yet  to  some  gentlemen  well  known, 


412 


MISCELLANIES. 


Wo  ji  mid  Reinken  maken  den  ferbund, 
How  ye  with  Reinke  made  (bond)  alliance, 
Un  wolden  wiiren  twe  like  gesellen: 
And  would  be  tivo  (like)  equal  partners: 
Dat  mot  ik  dirren  heren  fortallen. 
That  mote  I  these  gentlemen  forth-tell. 
Wente  Reinke,  myn  6m  in  wintersnod, 
Since  Reinke,  mine  uncle,  in  winter'  s-need, 
Umme  Isegrim's  willen,  fylna  was  dod. 
For  Isegrim's  (will)  sake,  full-nigh  was  dead. 
Wente  it  geshag  dat  ein  kwam  gefaren, 
For  it  chanced  that  one  came  (faring)  driving, 
De  hadde  grote  fishe  up  ener  karen: 
TI7iO  had  many  fshes  upon  a  car: 
Isegrim  hadde  geren  der  fishe  gehaled. 
Isegrim  had  fain  the  fishes  (have  haled)  have  got, 
Men  he  hadde  nigt,  darmid  se  worden  betaled. 
But  he  had  not  wherewith  they  should  be  (belaid)  paid. 
He  bragte  minen  6m  in  de  grote  nod, 
He  brought  mine  uncle  into  great  (need)  straits, 
Um  sinen  willen  ging  he  liggen  for  dod, 
For  his  sake  went  he  to  (lig)  lie  for  dead, 
Regt  in  den  wag,  un  stund  aventur. 
Right  in  the  ivay,  and  stood  (adventure)  chance. 
Market,  worden  em  6k  de  fishe  sur? 
Mark,  were  him  eke  the  fishes  (sour)  dear-bought  f 
Do  jenne  mid  der  kare  gefaren  kwam 
When  (yond)  he  with  the  car  driving  came 
Un  minen  6m  darsiilvest  fornem, 
And  mine  uncle  (there-self)  even  there  perceived, 
Hastigen  tog  he  syn  swerd  un  snel, 
Hastily  (took)  drew  he  his  sword  and  (snell)  quick, 
Un  wolde  mineme  ome  torriikken  en  fel. 
And  would  my  uncle  (latter  in  fell)  tear  in  pieces. 
Men  he  rogede  sik  nigt  klen  nog  grot; 
But  he  stirred  himself  not  (little  nor  great)  more  or  less  ; 
Do  mende  he  dat  he  were  dod; 
Then  (meaned)  thought  he  that  he  was  dead; 
He  lade  on  up  de  kar,  und  dayte  en  to  fillen, 
He  laid  him  upon  the  car,  and  thought  him  to  skin, 
Dat  wagede  he  all  dorg  Isegrim's  willen  ! 
That  risked  he  all  through  Isegrim's  will  ! 
Do  he  fordan  begunde  to  faren, 
When  In-  forth- on  began  to  fare, 
Warp  Reinke  etlike  fishe  fan  der  karen, 
Cast  Reinke  some  fishes  from  the  car, 


EARLY  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 


413 


Isegrim  fan  feme  agteona  kwam 

Isegrim  from  far  offer  came 

Un  derre  fishe  al  to  sik  nam. 

And  these  fishes  all  to  himself  took. 

Reinke  sprang  wedder  fan  der  karen ; 

Re  hike  sprang  again  from  the  car; 

Em  liistede  to  nigt  liinger  to  faren. 

Him  listed  not  longer  to  fare.' 

He  hadde  ok  genie  der  fishe  begerd, 

He  (had)  would  have  also  fain  of  the  fishes  required, 

Men  Isegrim  hadde  se  alle  forterd. 

But  Isegrim  had  them  all  consumed. 

He  had  de  geten  dat  he  wolde  barsten, 

He  had  eaten  so  that  he  would  burst, 

Un  moste  darumme  gen  torn  arsten. 

And  must  thereby  go  to  the  doctor. 

Do  Isegrim  der  graden  nigt  en  mogte, 

As  Isegrim  the  fish-bones  not  liked, 

Der  siilven  he  em  ein  weinig  brogte. 

Of  these  (self)  same  he  him  a  little  brought. 

Whereby  it  would  appear,  if  we  are  to  believe  Grimbart 
the  Badger,  that  Reinecke  was  not  only  the  cheater  in  this 
case,  but  also  the  cheatee :  however,  he  makes  matters 
straight  again  in  that  other  noted  fish-expedition,  where 
Isegrim,  minded  not  to  steal  but  to  catch  fish,  and  having 
no  fishing-tackle,  by  Reinecke's  advice  inserts  his  tail  into 
the  lake,  in  winter-season  ;  but  before  the  promised  string 
of  trouts,  all  hooked  to  one  another  and  to  him,  will  bite,  — 
is  frozen  in,  and  left  there  to  his  own  bitter  meditations. 

We  here  take  leave  of  Reinehe  de  Fos,  and  of  the  whole 
./Esopic  genus,  of  which  it  is  almost  the  last,  and  by  far  the 
most  remarkable  example.  The  Age  of  Apologue,  like  that 
of  Chivalry  and  Love-singing,  is  gone ;  for  nothing  in  this 
Earth  has  continuance.  If  we  ask,  Where  are  now  our 
People's-Books  ?  the  answer  might  give  room  for  reflections. 
Hinrek  van  Alkmer  has  passed  away,  and  Dr.  Birkbeck  has 
risen  in  his  room.  What  good  and  evil  lie  in  that  little  sen- 
tence ! —  But  doubtless  the  day  is  coming  when  what  is 
wanting  here  will  be  supplied  ;  when  as  the  Logical,  so  like- 


414 


MISCELLANIES. 


wise  the  Poetical  susceptibility  and  faculty  of  the  people,  — 
their  Fancy,  Humour,  Imagination,  v\  herein  lie  the  main  ele- 
ments of  spiritual  life,  —  will  no  longer  be  left  uncultivated, 
barren,  or  bearing  only  spontaneous  thistles,  but  in  new  and 
finer  harmony  with  an  improved  Understanding,  will  flourish 
in  new  vigour;  and  in  our  inward  world  there  will  again  be 
a  sunny  Firmament  and  verdant  Earth,  as  well  as  a  Pantry 
and  culinary  Fire  ;  and  men  will  learn  not  only  to  recapitu- 
late and  compute,  but  to  worship,  to  love ;  in  tears  or  in  laugh- 
ter, hold  mystical  as  well  as  logical  communion  with  the  high 
and  the  low  of  this  wondrous  Universe  ;  and  read,  as  they 
should  live,  with  their  whole  being.  Of  which  glorious  con- 
summation there  is  at  all  times,  seeing  these  endowments  are 
indestructible,  nay  essentially  supreme  in  man,  the  firmest 
ulterior  certainty,  but,  for  the  present,  only  faint  prospects 
and  far-off  indications.    Time  brings  Roses  ! 


TAYLOR'S  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  415 


TAYLOR'S  HISTORIC  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN 
POETRY.i 

[1831.] 

German  Literature  has  now  for  upwards  of  half  a  century 
been  making  some  way  in  England ;  yet  by  no  means  at  a  con- 
stant rate,  rather  in  capricious  flux  and  reflux,  —  deluge  al- 
ternating with  desiccation  :  never  would  it  assume  such  moder- 
ate, reasonable  currency,  as  promised  to  be  useful  and  lasting. 
The  history  of  its  progress  here  would  illustrate  the  progress 
of  more  important  things  ;  would  again  exemplify  what  ob- 
stacles a  new  spiritual  object,  with  its  mixture  of  truth  and 
of  falsehood,  has  to  encounter  from  unwise  enemies,  still  more 
from  unwise  friends  ;  how  dross  is  mistaken  for  metal,  and 
common  ashes  are  solemnly  labelled  as  fell  poison  ;  how  long, 
in  such  cases,  blind  Passion  must  vociferate  before  she  can 
awaken  Judgment ;  in  short,  with  what  tumult,  vicissitude 
and  protracted  difficulty,  a  foreign  doctrine  adjusts  and  lo- 
cates itself  among  the  homeborn.  Perfect  ignorance  is  quiet, 
perfect  knowledge  is  quiet ;  not  so  the  transition  from  the 
former  to  the  latter.  In  a  vague,  all-exaggerating  twilight  of 
wonder,  the  new  has  to  fight  its  battle  with  the  old  ;  Hope 
has  to  settle  accounts  with  Fear :  thus  the  scales  strangely 
waver ;  public  opinion,  which  is  as  yet  baseless,  fluctuates 
without  limit ;  periods  of  foolish  admiration  and  foolish  ex- 
ecration must  elapse,  before  that  of  true  inquiry  and  zeal 
according  to  knowledge  can  begin. 

1  Edinburgh  Review,  No.  105.  —  Historic  Survey  of  German  Poetry, 
interspersed  with  various  Translations.  By  W.  Taylor,  of  Norwich.  3 
vols.  8vo.    London,  1830. 


416 


MISCELLANIES. 


Thirty  years  ago,  for  example,  a  person  of  influence  and 
understanding  thought  good  to  emit  such  a  proclamation  as 
the  following :  '  Those  ladies,  who  take  the  lead  in  society, 
'  are  loudly  called  upon  to  act  as  guardians  of  the  public 
'  taste  as  well  as  of  the  public  virtue.  They  are  called  upon, 
'  therefore,  to  oppose,  with  the  whole  weight  of  their  influ- 
'  ence,  the  irruption  of  those  swarms  of  Publications  now 
'  daily  issuing  from  the  banks  of  the  Danube,  which,  like 
'  their  ravaging  predecessors  of  the  darker  ages,  though 
'  with  far  other  and  more  fatal  arms,  are  overrunning  civ- 
'  ilised  society.    Those  readers,  whose  purer  taste  has  been 

•  formed  on  the  correct  models  of  the  old  classic  school,  see 

*  with  indignation  and  astonishment  the  Huns  and  Vandals 
'  once  more  overpowering  the  Greeks  and  Romans.  They 
k  behold  our  minds,  with  a  retrograde  but  rapid  motion, 
'  hurried  back  to  the  reign  of  Chaos  and  old  Night,  by  dis- 
'  torted  and  unprincipled  Compositions,  which,  in  spite  of 
'  strong  flashes  of  genius,  unite  the  taste  of  the  Goths  with 
'  the  morals  of  Bagshot.'  —  '  The  newspapers  announce  that 
'  Schiller's  Tragedy  of  the  Robbers,  which  inflamed  the  young 
'  nobility  of  Germany  to  enlist  themselves  into  a  band  of 
'  highwaymen  to  rob  in  the  forests  of  Bohemia,  is  now  acting 
'  in  England  by  persons  of  quality  !  '  1 

Whether  our  fair  Amazons,  at  sound  of  this  alarm-tr limpet, 
drew  up  in  array  of  war  to  discomfit  those  invading  Com- 
positions, and  snuff-out  the  lights  of  that  questionable  private 
theatre,  we  have  not  learned  ;  and  see  only  that,  if  so,  their 
campaign  was  fruitless  and  needless.  Like  the  old  Northern 
Immigrators,  those  new  Paper  Goths  marched  on  resistless 
whither  they  were  bound  ;  some  to  honour,  some  to  dishon- 
our, the  most  to  oblivion  and  the  impalpable  inane  ;  and  no 
weapon  or  artillery,  not  even  the  glances  of  bright  eyes,  but 
only  the  omnipotence  of  Time,  could  tame  and  assort  them. 
Thus,  Kotzebue's  truculent  armaments,  once  so  threatening, 

1  Strictures  on  the  Modern  System  of  Female  Education.  By  Hannah 
More.    The  Eighth  Edition,  p.  41. 


TAYLOR'S  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY. 


417 


all  turned  out  to  be  mere  Phantasms  and  Night-apparitions  ; 
and  so  rushed  onwards,  like  some  Spectre-Hunt,  with  loud 
howls  indeed,  yet  hurrying  nothing  into  Chaos  but  them- 
selves. While  again,  Schiller's  Tragedy  of  the  Robbers., 
which  did  not  inflame  either  the  young  or  the  old  nobility 
of  Germany  to  rob  in  the  forests  of  Bohemia,  or  indeed  to 
do  anything,  except  perhaps  yawn  a  little  less,  proved  equally 
innocuous  in  England,  and  might  still  be  acted  without  of- 
fence, could  living  individuals,  idle  enough  for  that  end,  be 
met  with  here.  Nay,  this  same  Schiller,  not  indeed  by  Rob- 
bers, yet  by  Wattensteins,  by  Maids  of  Orleans,  and  Wilhelm 
Tells,  has  actually  conquered  for  himself  a  fixed  dominion 
among  us,  which  is  yearly  widening ;  round  which  other 
German  kings,  of  less  intrinsic  prowess,  and  of  greater,  are 
likewise  erecting  thrones.  And  yet,  as  we  perceive,  civilised 
society  still  stands  in  its  place  ;  and  the  public  taste,  as  well 
as  the  public  virtue,  live  on,  though  languidly,  as  before. 
For,  in  fine,  it  has  become  manifest  that  the  old  Cimmerian 
Forest  is  now  quite  felled  and  tilled  ;  that  the  true  Children 
of  Night,  whom  we  have  to  dread,  dwell  not  on  the  banks  of 
the  Danube,  but  nearer  hand. 

Could  we  take  our  progress  in  knowledge  of  German 
Literature  since  that  diatribe  was  written,  as  any  measure 
of  our  progress  in  the  science  of  Criticism,  above  all,  in  the 
grand  science  of  national  Tolerance,  there  were  some  reason 
for  satisfaction.  With  regard  to  Germany  itself,  whether  we 
yet  stand  on  the  right  footing,  and  know  at  last  how  we  are 
to  live  in  profitable  neighbourhood  and  intercourse  with  that 
country ;  or  whether  the  present  is  but  one  other  of  those 
capricious  tides,  which  also  will  have  its  reflux,  may  seem 
doubtful  :  meanwhile,  clearly  enough,  a  rapidly  growing  fa- 
vour for  German  Literature  comes  to  light ;  which  favour 
too  is  the  more  hopeful,  as  it  now  grounds  itself  on  better 
knowledge,  on  direct  study  and  judgment.  Our  knowledge 
is  better,  if  only  because  more  general.  Within  the  last  ten 
years,  independent  readers  of  German  have  multiplied  per- 

VOL,  II.  27 


418 


MISCELLANIES. 


haps  a  hundredfold  ;  so  that  now  this  acquirement  is  almost 
expected  as  a  natural  item  in  liberal  education.  Hence,  in 
a  great  number  of  minds,  some  immediate  personal  insight 
into  the  deeper  significance  of  German  Intellect  and  Art ;  — 
everywhere,  at  least  a  feeling  that  it  has  some  such  signifi- 
cance. With  independent  readers,  moreover,  the  writer 
ceases  to  be  independent,  which  of  itself  is  a  considerable 
step.  Our  British  Translators,  for  instance,  have  long  been 
unparalleled  in  modern  literature,  and,  like  their  country, 
'  the  envy  of  surrounding  nations  :  '  but  now  there  are  symp- 
toms that,  even  in  the  remote  German  province,  they  must 
no  longer  range  quite  at  will ;  that  the  butchering  of  a  Faust 
will  henceforth  be  accounted  literary  homicide,  and  practition- 
ers of  that  quality  must  operate  on  the  dead  subject  only. 
While  there  are  Klingemanns  and  Claurens  in  such  abun- 
dance, let  no  merely  ambitious,  or  merely  hungry  Interpreter 
fasten  on  Goethes  and  Schillers.  Remark  too,  with  satisfac- 
tion, how  the  old-established  British  Critic  now  feels  that  it 
has  become  unsafe  to  speak  delirium  on  this  subject ;  where- 
fore he  prudently  restricts  himself  to  one  of  two  courses : 
either  to  acquire  some  understanding  of  it,  or,  which  is  the 
still  surer  course,  altogether  to  hold  his  peace.  Hence  free- 
dom from  much  babble  that  was  wont  to  be  oppressive  : 
probably  no  watchhorn  with  such  a  note  as  that  of  Mrs. 
More's  can  again  be  sounded,  by  male  or  female.  Dogberry, 
in  these  Islands.  Again,  there  is  no  one  of  our  younger, 
more  vigorous  Periodicals,  but  has  its  German  craftsman, 
gleaning  what  he  can  :  we  have  seen  Jean  Paul  quoted  in 
English  Newspapers.  Nor,  among  the  signs  of  improve- 
ment, at  least  of  extended  curiosity,  let  us  omit  our  British 
Foreign  Reviews,  a  sort  of  merchantmen  that  regularly  visit 
the  Continental,  especially  the  German  Ports,  and  bring  back 
such  ware  as  luck  yields  them,  with  the  hope  of  better. 
Last,  not  least  among  our  evidences  of  Philo-Germanism, 
here  is  a  whole  Historic  Survey  of  German  Poetry,  in  three 
sufficient  octavos  ;  and  this  not  merely  in  the  eulogistic  and 


TAYLOR'S  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  419 


recommendatory  vein,*  but  proceeding  in  the  way  of  criti- 
cism, and  indifferent,  impartial  narrative  :  a  man  of  known 
character,  of  talent,  experience,  penetration,  judges  that  the 
English  public  is  prepared  for  such  a  service,  and  likely  to 
reward  it. 

These  are  appearances,  which,  as  advocates  for  the  friendly 
approximation  of  all  men  and  all  peoples,  and  the  readiest 
possible  interchange  of  whatever  each  produces  of  advantage 
to  the  others,  we  must  witness  gladly.  Free  literary  inter- 
course with  other  nations,  what  is  it  but  an  extended  Free- 
dom of  the  Press  ;  a  liberty  to  read  (in  spite  of  Ignorance, 
of  Prejudice,  which  is  the  worst  of  Censors)  what  our  for- 
eign teachers  also  have  printed  for  us  ?  Ultimately,  there- 
fore, a  liberty  to  speak  and  to  hear,  were  it  with  men  of  all 
countries  and  of  all  times  ;  to  use,  in  utmost  compass,  those 
precious  natural  organs,  by  which  not  Knowledge  only  but 
mutual  Affection  is  chiefly  generated  among  mankind  !  It 
is  a  natural  wish  in  man  to  know  his  fellow-passengers  in 
this  strange  Ship,  or  Planet,  on  this  strange  Life-voyage  : 
neither  need  his  curiosity  restrict  itself  to  the  cabin  where 
he  himself  chances  to  lodge  ;  but  may  extend  to  all  accessi- 
ble departments  of  the  vessel.  In  all  he  will  find  mysterious 
beings,  of  Wants  and  Endeavours  like  his  own  ;  in  all  he  will 
find  Men  ;  with  these  let  him  comfort  and  manifoldly  instruct 
himself.  As  to  German  Literature,  in  particular,  which  pro- 
fesses to  be  not  only  new,  but  original,  and  rich  in  curious 
information  for  us  ;  which  claims,  moreover,  nothing  that  we 
have  not  granted  to  the  French,  Italian,  Spanish,  and  in  a 
less  degree  to  far  meaner  literatures,  we  are  gratified  to  see 
that  such  claims  can  no  longer  be  resisted.  In  the  present 
fallow  state  of  our  English  Literature,  when  no  Poet  culti- 
vates his  own  poetic  field,  but  all  are  harnessed  into  Editorial 
teams,  and  ploughing  in  concert,  for  Useful  Knowledge,  or 
Bibliopolic  Profit,  we  regard  this  renewal  of  our  intercourse 
with  poetic  Germany,  after  twenty  years  of  languor  or  sus- 
pension, as  among  the  most  remarkable  and  even  promising 


420 


MISCELLANIES. 


features  of  our  recent  intellectunl  history.  In  the  absence 
of  better  tendencies,  let  this,  which  is  no  idle,  but  in  some 
points  of  view  a  deep  and  earnest  one,  be  encouraged.  For 
ourselves,  in  the  midst  of  so  many  louder  and  more  exciting 
interests,  we  feel  it  a  kind  of  duty  to  cast  some  glances  now 
and  then  on  this  little  stiller  interest :  since  the  matter  is 
once  for  all  to  be  inquired  into,  sound  notions  on  it  should 
be  furthered,  unsound  ones  cannot  be  too  speedily  corrected. 
It  is  on  such  grounds  that  we  have  taken  up  this  Historic 
Survey. 

Mr.  Taylor  is  so  considerable  a  person,  that  no  Book  de- 
liberately published  by  him,  on  any  subject,  can  be  without 
weight.  On  German  Poetry,  such  is  the  actual  state  of  pub- 
lic information  and  curiosity,  his  guidance  will  be  sure  to  lead 
or  mislead  a  numerous  class  of  inquirers.  We  are  therefore 
called  on  to  examine  him  with  more  than  usual  strictness  and 
minuteness.  The  Press,  in  these  times,  has  become  so  ac- 
tive ;  Literature,  what  is  still  called  Literature,  has  so  dilated 
in  volume,  and  diminished  in  density,  that  the  very  Reviewer 
feels  at  a  nonplus,  and  has  ceased  to  review.  Why  thought- 
fully examine  what  was  written  without  thought ;  or  note 
faults  and  merits,  where  there  is  neither  fault  nor  merit  ? 
From  a  Nonentity,  embodied,  with  innocent  deception,  in 
foolscap  and  printers'  ink,  and  named  Book ;  from  the  com- 
mon wind  of  Talk,  even  when  it  is  conserved  by  such 
mechanism,  for  days,  in  the  shape  of  Froth,  —  how  shall  the 
hapless  Reviewer  filter  aught  in  that  once  so  profitable  col- 
ander of  his  ?  He  has  ceased,  as  we  said,  to  attempt  the 
impossible,  —  cannot  review,  but  only  discourse  ;  he  dis- 
misses his  too  unproductive  Author,  generally  with  civil 
words,  not  to  quarrel  needlessly  with  a  fellow-creature  ;  and 
must  try,  as  he  best  may,  to  grind  from  his  own  poor  garner. 
Authors  long  looked  with  an  evil,  envious  eye  on  the  Re- 
viewer, and  strove  often  to  blow  out  his  light,  which  only 
burnt  the  clearer  for  such  blasts ;  but  now,  cunningly  alter- 
ing their  tactics,  they  have  extinguished  it  by  want  of  oil. 


TAYLOR'S  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  421 


Unless  for  some  unforeseen  change  of  affairs,  or  some  new- 
contrived  machinery,  of  which  there  is  yet  no  trace,  the  trade 
of  the  Reviewer  is  wellnigh  done. 

The  happier  are  we  that  Mr.  Taylor's  Book  is  of  the  old 
stamp,  and  has  substance  in  it  for  our  uses.  If  no  honour, 
there  will  be  no  disgrace,  in  having  carefully  examined  it ; 
which  service,  indeed,  is  due  to  our  readers,  not  without  curi- 
osity in  this  matter,  as  well  as  to  the  Author.  In  so  far  as  he 
seems  a  safe  guide,  and  brings  true  tidings  from  the  promised 
land,  let  us  proclaim  that  fact,  and  recommend  him  to  all  pil- 
grims :  if,  on  the  other  hand,  his  tidings  are  false,  let  us 
hasten  to  make  this  also  known ;  that  the  German  Canaan 
suffer  not,  in  the  eyes  of  the  fainthearted,  by  spurious  sam- 
ples of  its  produce  and  reports  of  bloodthirsty  sons  of  Anak 
dwelling  there,  which  this  harbinger  and  spy  brings  out  of  it. 
In  either  case,  we  may  hope,  our  Author,  who  loves  the  Ger- 
mans in  his  way,  and  would  have  his  countrymen  brought 
into  closer  acquaintance  with  them,  will  feel  that,  in  purpose 
at  least,  we  are  cooperating  with  him. 

First,  then,  be  it  admitted  without  hesitation,  that  Mr. 
Taylor,  in  respect  of  general  talent  and  acquirement,  takes 
his  place  above  all  our  expositors  of  German  things  ;  that 
his  Book  is  greatly  the  most  important  we  yet  have  on  this 
subject.  Here  are  upwards  of  fourteen  hundred  solid  pages 
of  commentary,  narrative  and  translation,  submitted  to  the 
English  reader;  numerous  statements  and  personages,  hith- 
erto unheard  of,  or  vaguely  heard  of,  stand  here  in  fixed 
shape  ;  there  is,  if  no  map  of  intellectual  Germany,  some 
first  attempt  at  such.  Farther,  we  are  to  state  that  our 
Author  is  a  zealous,  earnest  man  ;  no  hollow  dilettante  hunt- 
ing after  shadows,  and  prating  he  knows  not  what ;  but  a 
substantial,  distinct,  remarkably  decisive  man  ;  has  his  own 
opinion  on  many  subjects,  and  can  express  it  adequately. 
We  should  say,  precision  of  idea  was  a  striking  quality  of 
his  :  no  vague  transcendentalism,  or  mysticism  of  any  kind  ; 
nothing  but  what  is  measurable  and  tangible,  and  has  a  mean- 


422 


MISCELLANIES. 


ing  which  he  that  runs  may  read,  is  to  be  apprehended  here. 
He  is  a  man  of  much  classical  and  other  reading ;  of  much 
singular  reflection  ;  stands  on  his  own  basis,  quiescent  yet 
immovable  :  a  certain  rugged  vigour  of  natural  power,  in- 
teresting even  in  its  distortions,  is  everywhere  manifest. 
Lastly,  we  venture  to  assign  him  the  rare  merit  of  hon- 
esty :  he  speaks  out  in  plain  English  what  is  in  him  ;  seems 
heartily  convinced  of  his  own  doctrines,  and  preaches  them 
because  they  are  his  own  ;  not  for  the  sake  of  sale,  but  of 
truth ;  at  worst,  for  the  sake  of  making  proselytes. 

On  the  strength  of  which  properties,  we  reckon  that  this 
Historic  Survey  may,  under  certain  conditions,  be  useful  and 
acceptable  to  two  classes.  First,  to  incipient  students  of 
German  Literature  in  the  original ;  who  in  any  History  of 
their  subject,  even  in  a  bare  catalogue,  will  find  help  ;  though 
for  that  class,  unfortunately,  Mr.  Taylor's  help  is  much  dimin- 
ished in  value  by  several  circumstances  ;  by  this  one,  were 
there  no  other,  that  he  nowhere  cites  any  authority  :  the  path 
he  has  opened  may  be  the  true  or  the  false  one  ;  for  farther 
researches  and  lateral  surveys  there  is  no  direction  or  indica- 
tion. But,  secondly,  we  reckon  that  this  Book  may  be  wel- 
come to  many  of  the  much  larger  miscellaneous  class,  who 
read  less  for  any  specific  object  than  for  the  sake  of  reading ; 
to  whom  any  book  that  will,  either  in  the  way  of  contradic- 
tion or  of  confirmation,  by  new  wisdom  or  new  perversion  of 
wisdom,  stir  up  the  stagnant  inner  man,  is  a  windfall ;  the 
rather  if  it  bring  some  historic  tidings  also,  fit  for  remember- 
ing, and  repeating ;  above  all,  if,  as  in  this  case,  the  style 
with  many  singularities  have  some  striking  merits,  and  so 
the  book  be  a  light  exercise,  even  an  entertainment. 

To  such  praise  and  utility  the  Work  is  justly  entitled  ;  but 
this  is  not  all  it  pretends  to  ;  and  more  cannot  without  many 
limitations  be  conceded  it.  Unluckily  the  Historic  Survey  is 
not  what  it  should  be,  but  only  what  it  would  be.  Our  Au- 
thor hastens  to  correct  in  his  Preface  any  false  hopes  his 
Title-page  may  have  excited :  '  A  complete  History  of  Ger- 


TAYLOR'S  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  423 


4  man  Poetry,'  it  seems,  4  is  hardly  within  reach  of  his  local 
4  command  of  library :  so  comprehensive  an  undertaking 
4  would  require  another  residence  in  a  country  from  which 
'  he  has  now  been  separated  more  than  forty  years  : '  and 
which  various  considerations  render  it  unadvisable  to  revisit. 
Nevertheless,  '  having  long  been  in  the  practice  of  importing 
the  productions  of  its  fine  literature,'  and  of  working  in  that 
material,  as  critic,  biographer  and  translator,  for  more  than 
one  4  periodic  publication  of  this  country,'  he  has  now  com- 
posed '  introductory  and  connective  sections,'  filled  up  defi- 
ciencies, retrenched  superfluities  ;  and  so,  collecting  and  re- 
modelling those  '  successive  contributions,'  cements  them 
together  into  the  '  new  and  entire  work '  here  offered  to 
the  public.  '  With  fragments,'  he  concludes,  4  long  since 
'  hewn,  as  it  were,  and  sculptured,  I  attempt  to  construct  an 
'  English  Temple  of  Fame  to  the  memory  of  those  German 
'  Poets.' 

There  is  no  doubt  but  a  Complete  History  of  German 
Poetry  exceeds  any  local  or  universal  command  of  books 
which  a  British  man  can  at  this  day  enjoy  ;  and,  farther, 
presents  obstacles  of  an  infinitely  more  serious  character 
than  this.  A  History  of  German,  or  of  any  national 
Poetry,  would  form,  taken  in  its  complete  sense,  one  of  the 
most  arduous  enterprises  any  writer  could  engage  in.  Poe- 
try, were  it  the  rudest,  so  it  be  sincere,  is  the  attempt  which 
man  makes  to  render  his  existence  harmonious,  the  utmost 
he  can  do  for  that  end  :  it  springs  therefore  from  his  whole 
feelings,  opinions,  activity,  and  takes  its  character  from  these. 
It  may  be  called  the  music  of  his  whole  manner  of  being ; 
and,  historically  considered,  is  the  test  how  far  Music,  or 
Freedom,  existed  therein  ;  how  far  the  feeling  of  Love,  of 
Beauty  and  Dignity,  could  be  elicited  from  that  peculiar  sit- 
uation of  his,  and  from  the  views  he  there  had  of  Life  and 
Nature,  of  the  Universe,  internal  and  external.  Hence,  in 
any  measure  to  understand  the  Poetry,  to  estimate  its  worth 
and  historical  meaning,  we  ask  as  a  quite  fundamental  in- 


424 


MISCELLANIES. 


quiry :  What  that  situation  was  ?  Thus  the  History  of  a 
nation's  Poetry  is  the  essence  of  its  History,  political,  eco- 
nomic, scientific,  religious.  With  all  these  the  complete  His- 
torian of  a  national  Poetry  will  be  familiar ;  the  national 
physiognomy,  in  its  finest  traits,  and  through  its  successive 
stages  of  growth,  will  be  clear  to  him :  he  will  discern  the 
grand  spiritual  Tendency  of  each  period,  what  was  the  high- 
est Aim  and  Enthusiasm  of  mankind  in  each,  and  how  one 
epoch  naturally  evolved  itself  from  the  other.  He  has  to 
record  the  highest  Aim  of  a  nation,  in  its  successive  direc- 
tions and  developments  ;  for  by  this  the  Poetry  of  the  na- 
tion modulates  itself ;  this  is  the  Poetry  of  the  nation. 

Such  were  the  primary  essence  of  a  true  History  of  Poe- 
try ;  the  living  principle  round  which  all  detached  facts  and 
phenomena,  all  separate  characters  of  Poems  and  Poets, 
would  fashion  themselves  into  a  coherent  whole,  if  they  are 
by  any  means  to  cohere.  To  accomplish  such  a  work  for 
any  Literature  would  require  not  only  all  outward  aids,  but 
an  excellent  inward  faculty  :  all  telescopes  and  observatories 
were  of  no  avail,  without  the  seeing  eye  and  the  understand- 
ing heart. 

Doubtless,  as  matters  stand,  such  models  remain  in  great 
part  ideal ;  the  stinted  result  of  actual  practice  must  not  be 
too  rigidly  tried  by  them.  In  our  language,  we  have  yet  no 
example  of  such  a  performance.  Neither  elsewhere,  except 
perhaps  in  the  well-meant,  but  altogether  ineffectual,  attempt 
of  Denina,  among  the  Italians,  and  in  some  detached,  though 
far  more  successful,  sketches  by  German  writers,  is  there 
any  that  we  know  of.  To  expect  an  English  History  of 
German  Literature  in  this  style  were  especially  unreason- 
able ;  where  not  only  the  man  to  write  it,  but  the  people  to 
read  and  enjoy  it  are  wanting.  Some  Historic  Survey, 
wherein  such  an  ideal  standard,  if  not  attained,  if  not  ap- 
proached, might  be  faithfully  kept  in  view,  and  endeavoured 
after,  would  suffice  us.  Neither  need  such  a  Survey,  even 
as  a  British  Surveyor  might  execute  it,  be  deficient  in  strik- 


TAYLOR'S  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY. 


425 


ing  objects,  and  view%  of  a  general  interest.  There  is  the 
spectacle  of  a  great  people,  closely  related  to  us  in  blood, 
language,  character,  advancing  through  fifteen  centuries  of 
culture  ;  with  the  eras  and  changes  that  have  distinguished 
the  like  career  in  other  nations.  Nay,  perhaps,  the  intellect- 
ual history  of  the  Germans  is  not  without  peculiar  attraction, 
on  two  grounds  :  first,  that  they  are  a  separate  unmixed 
people ;  that  in  them  one  of  the  two  grand  stem-tribes,  from 
which  all  modern  European  countries  derive  their  popula- 
tion and  speech,  is  seen  growing  up  distinct,  and  in  several 
particulars  following  its  own  course  :  secondly,  that  by  acci- 
dent and  by  desert,  the  Germans  have  more  than  once  been 
found  playing  the  highest  part  in  European  culture  ;  at  more 
than  one  era  the  grand  Tendencies  of  Europe  have  first  em- 
bodied themselves  into  action  in  Germany,  the  main  battle 
between  the  New  and  the  Old  has  been  fought  and  gained 
there.  We  mention  only  the  Swiss  Revolt,  and  Luther's 
Reformation.  The  Germans  have  not  indeed  so  many  clas- 
sical works  to  exhibit  as  some  other  nations ;  a  Shakspeare, 
a  Dante,  has  not  yet  been  recognised  among  them  ;  never- 
theless, they  too  have  had  their  Teachers  and  inspired 
Singers ;  and  in  regard  to  popular  Mythology,  traditionary 
possessions  and  spirit,  what  we  may  call  the  inarticulate 
Poetry  of  a  nation,  and  what  is  the  element  of  its  spoken 
or  written  Poetry,  they  will  be  found  superior  to  any  other 
modern  people. 

The  Historic  Surveyor  of  German  Poetry  will  observe  a 
remarkable  nation  struggling  out  of  Paganism  ;  fragments  of 
that  stern  Superstition,  saved  from  the  general  wreck,  and 
still,  amid  the  new  order  of  things,  carrying  back  our  view, 
in  faint  reflexes,  into  the  dim  primeval  time.  By  slow  de- 
grees the  chaos  of  the  Northern  Immigrations  settles  into  a 
new  and  fairer  world ;  arts  advance ;  little  by  little,  a  fund 
of  Knowledge,  of  Power  over  Nature,  is  accumulated  by 
man ;  feeble  glimmerings,  even  of  a  higher  knowledge,  of  a 
poetic,  break  forth ;  till  at  length  in  the  Sioabian  Era,  as  it 


426 


MISCELLANIES. 


is  named,  a  blaze  of  true  though  simple  Poetry  bursts  over 
Germany,  more  splendid,  we  might  say,  than  the  Trouba- 
dour Period  of  any  other  nation  ;  for  that  famous  Nibelungen 
Song,  produced,  at  least  ultimately  fashioned  in  those  times, 
and  still  so  significant  in  these,  is  altogether  without  parallel 
elsewhere. 

To  this  period,  the  essence  of  which  was  young  Wonder, 
and  an  enthusiasm  for  which  Chivalry  was  still  the  fit  expo- 
nent, there  succeeds,  as  was  natural,  a  period  of  Inquiry,  a 
Didactic  period ;  wherein,  among  the  Germans,  as  elsewhere, 
many  a  Hugo  von  Trimberg  delivers  wise  saws,  and  moral 
apophthegms,  to  the  general  edification :  later,  a  Town-clerk 
of  Strasburg  sees  his  Ship  of  Fools  translated  into  all  living 
languages,  twice  into  Latin,  and  read  by  Kings ;  the  Apo- 
logue of  Reynard  the  Fox  gathering  itself  together,  from 
sources  remote  and  near,  assumes  its  Low-German  vesture, 
and  becomes  the  darling  of  high  and  low ;  nay  still  lives 
with  us,  in  rude  genial  vigour,  as  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
indigenous  productions  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Nor  is  acted 
poetry  of  this  kind  wanting ;  the  Spirit  of  Inquiry  translates 
itself  into  Deeds  which  are  poetical,  as  well  as  into  words : 
already  at  the  opening  of  the  fourteenth  century,  Germany 
witnesses  the  first  assertion  of  political  right,  the  first  vindi- 
cation of  Man  against  Nobleman ;  in  the  early  history  of  the 
German  Swiss.  And  again,  two  centuries  later,  the  first 
assertion  of  intellectual  right,  the  first  vindication  of  Man 
against  Clergyman  ;  in  the  history  of  Luther's  Reformation. 
Meanwhile  the  Press  has  begun  its  incalculable  task  ;  the 
indigenous  Fiction  of  the  Germans,  what  we  have  called 
their  inarticulate  Poetry,  issues  in  innumerable  Volksbucher 
(People's-Books),  the  progeny  and  kindred  of  which  still  live 
in  all  European  countries  :  the  People  have  their  Tragedy 
and  their  Comedy ;  Tyll  EuJenspiegel  shakes  every  dia- 
phragm with  laughter;  the  rudest  heart  quails  with  awe  at 
the  wild  mythus  of  Faust. 

With  Luther,  however,  the  Didactic  Tendency  has  reached 


TAYLOR'S  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  427 


its  poetic  acme ;  and  now  we  must  see  it  assume  a  prosaic 
character,  and  Poetry  for  a  long  while  decline.  The  Spirit 
of  Inquiry,  of  Criticism,  is  pushed  beyond  the  limits,  or  too 
exclusively  cultivated  :  what  had  done  so  much,  is  supposed 
capable  of  doing  all ;  Understanding  is  alone  listened  to, 
while  Fancy  and  Imagination  languish  inactive,  or  are  forci- 
bly stifled ;  and  all  poetic  culture  gradually  dies  away.  As 
if  with  the  high  resolute  genius,  and  noble  achievements,  of 
its  Luthers  and  Huttens,  the  genius  of  the  country  had  ex- 
hausted itself,  we  behold  generation  after  generation  of  mere 
Prosaists  succeed  these  high  Psalmists.  Science  indeed  ad- 
vances, practical  manipulation  in  all  kinds  improves  ;  Ger- 
many has  its  Copernics,  Hevels,  Guerickes,  Keplers ;  later,  a 
Leibnitz  opens  the  path  of  true  Logic,  and  teaches  the  mys- 
teries of  Figure  and  Number :  but  the  finer  Education  of 
mankind  seems  at  a  stand.  Instead  of  Poetic  recognition 
and  worship,  we  have  stolid  Theologic  controversy,  or  still 
shallower  Freethinking ;  pedantry,  servility,  mode-hunting, 
every  species  of  Idolatry  and  Affectation  holds  sway.  The 
"World  has  lost  its  beauty,  Life  its  infinite  majesty,  as  if  the 
Author  of  it  were  no  longer  divine :  instead  of  admiration 
and  creation  of  the  True,  there  is  at  best  criticism  and  denial 
of  the  False ;  to  Luther  there  has  succeeded  Thomasius. 
In  this  era,  so  unpoetical  for  all  Europe,  Germany,  torn  in 
pieces  by  a  Thirty-Years'  War,  and  its  consequences,  is 
preeminently  prosaic ;  its  few  Singers  are  feeble  echoes  of 
foreign  models  little  better  than  themselves.  No  Shak- 
speare,  no  Milton  appears  there ;  such,  indeed,  would  have 
appeared  earlier,  if  at  all,  in  the  current  of  German  history : 
but  instead,  they  have  only  at  best  Opitzes,  Flemmings,  Lo- 
gaus,  as  we  had  our  Queen  Anne  Wits  ;  or,  in  their  Lohen- 
steins,  Gryphs,  Hoffmannswaldaus,  though  in  inverse  order, 
an  unintentional  parody  of  our  Drydens  and  Lees. 

Nevertheless  from  every  moral  death  there  is  a  new  birth  ; 
in  this  wondrous  course  of  his,  man  may  indeed  linger,  but 
cannot  retrograde  or  stand  still.    In  the  middle  of  last  cen- 


428 


MISCELLANIES. 


tury,  from  among  Parisian  Erotics,  rickety  Sentimentalism, 
Court  aperies,  and  hollow  Dulness  striving  in  all  hopeless 
courses,  we  behold  the  giant  spirit  of  Germany  awaken  as 
from  long  slumber ;  shake  away  these  worthless  fetters,  and 
by  its  Lessings  and  Klopstocks,  announce,  in  true  German 
dialect,  that  the  Germans  also  are  men.  Singular  enough  in 
its  circumstances  was  this  resuscitation ;  the  work  as  of  a 
'  spirit  on  the  waters,'  a  movement  agitating  the  great  pop- 
ular mass ;  for  it  was  favoured  by  no  court  or  king :  all 
sovereignties,  even  the  pettiest,  had  abandoned  their  native 
Literature,  their  native  language,  as  if  to  irreclaimable  bar- 
barism. The  greatest  king  produced  in  Germany  since  Bar- 
barossa's  time,  Frederick  the  Second,  looked  coldly  on  the 
native  endeavour,  and  saw  no  hope  but  in  aid  from  France. 
However,  the  native  endeavour  prospered  without  aid :  Les- 
sing's  announcement  did  not  die  away  with  him,  but  took 
clearer  utterance,  and  more  inspired  modulation  from  his 
followers  ;  in  whose  works  it  now  speaks,  not  to  Germany 
alone,  but  to  the  whole  world.  The  results  of  this  last  Pe- 
riod of  German  Literature  are  of  deep  significance,  the  depth 
of  which  is  perhaps  but  now  becoming  visible.  Here  too, 
it  may  be,  as  in  other  cases,  the  Want  of  the  Age  has  first 
taken  voice  and  shape  in  Germany  ;  that  change  from  Nega- 
tion to  Affirmation,  from  Destruction  to  Re-construction,  for 
which  all  thinkers  in  every  country  are  now  prepared,  is 
perhaps  already  in  action  there.  In  the  nobler  Literature 
of  the  Germans,  say  some,  lie  the  rudiments  of  a  new  spirit- 
ual era,  which  it  is  for  this  and  for  succeeding  generations  to 
work  out  and  realise.  The  ancient  creative  Inspiration,  it 
would  seem,  is  still  possible  in  these  ages  ;  at  a  time  when 
Scepticism,  Frivolity,  Sensuality  had  withered  Life  into  a 
sand-desert,  and  our  gayest  prospect  was  but  the  false  mi- 
rage, and  even  our  Byrons  could  utter  but  a  death-song  or 
despairing  howl,  the  Moses'-wand  has  again  struck  from  that 
Horeb  refreshing  streams,  towards  which  the  better  spirits 
of  all  nations  are  hastening,  if  not  to  drink,  yet  wistfully  and 


TAYLOR'S  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  429 


hopefully  to  examine.  -  If  the  older  Literary  History  of 
Germany  has  the  common  attractions,  which  in  a  greater  or 
a  less  degree  belong  to  the  successive  epochs  of  other  such 
Histories  ;  its  newer  Literature,  and  the  historical  delinea- 
tion of  this,  has  an  interest  such  as  belongs  to  no  other. 

It  is  somewhat  in  this  way,  as  appears  to  us,  that  the 
growth  of  German  Poetry  must  be  construed  and  repi'e- 
sented  by  the  historian :  these  are  the  general  phenomena 
.and  vicissitudes,  which,  if  elucidated  by  proper  individual 
instances,  by  specimens  fitly  chosen,  presented  in  natural 
sequence,  and  worked  by  philosophy  into  union,  would  make 
a  valuable  book ;  on  any  and  all  of  which  the  observations 
and  researches  of  so  able  an  inquirer  as  Mr.  Taylor  would 
have  been  welcome.  Sorry  are  we  to  declare  that  of  all  this, 
which  constitutes  the  essence  of  anything  calling  itself  His- 
toric Survey,  there  is  scarcely  a  vestige  in  the  Book  before 
us.  The  question,  What  is  the  German  mind ;  what  is  the 
culture  of  the  German  mind  ;  what  course  has  Germany 
followed  in  that  matter ;  what  are  its  national  characteristics 
as  manifested  therein  ?  appears  not  to  have  presented  itself 
to  the  Author's  thought.  No  theorem  of  Germany  and  its 
intellectual  progress,  not  even  a  false  one,  has  he  been  at 
pains  to  construct  for  himself.  We  believe,  it  is  impossible 
for  the  most  assiduous  reader  to  gather  from  these  three  Vol- 
umes any  portraiture  of  the  national  mind  of  Germany,  not 
to  say  in  its  successive  phases  and  the  historical  sequence  of 
these,  but  in  any  one  phase  or  condition.  The  Work  is  made 
up  of  critical,  biographical,  bibliographical  dissertations,  and 
notices  concerning  this  and  the  other  individual  poet ;  inter- 
spersed with  large  masses  of  translation ;  and  except  that  all 
these  are  strung  together  in  the  order  of  time,  has  no  histori- 
cal feature  whatever.  Many  literary  lives  as  we  read,  the 
nature  of  literary  life  in  Germany,  what  sort  of  moral,  eco- 
nomical, intellectual  element  it  is  that  a  German  writer  lives 
in  and  works  in,  —  will  nowhere  manifest  itself.  Indeed,  far 
from  depicting  Germany,  scarcely  on  more  than  one  or  two 


430 


MISCELLANIES. 


occasions  does  our  Author  even  look  at  it,  or  so  much  as  re- 
mind us  that  it  were  capable  of  being  depicted.  On  these 
rare  occasions  too,  we  are  treated  with  such  philosophic  in- 
sight as  the  following :  '  The  Germans  are  not  an  imitative, 
'  but  they  are  a  listening  people  :  they  can  do  nothing  without 
'  directions,  and  anything  with  them.  As  soon  as  Gottsched's 
'  rules  for  writing  German  correctly  had  made  their  appear- 
'  ance,  everybody  began  to  write  German.'  Or  we  have  the- 
oretic hints,  resting  on  no  basis,  about  some  new  tribunal  of 
taste  which  at  one  time  had  formed  itself  '  in  the  mess-rooms 
of  the  Prussian  officers  ! ' 

In  a  word,  the  <  connecting  sections,'  or  indeed  by  what 
alchymy  such  a  congeries  could  be  connected  into  a  Historic 
Survey,  have  not  become  plain  to  us.  Considerable  part  of 
it  consists  of  quite  detached  little  Notices,  mostly  of  alto- 
gether insignificant  men;  heaped  together  as  separate  frag- 
ments ;  fit,  had  they  been  unexceptionable  in  other  respects, 
for  a  Biographical  Dictionary,  but  nowise  for  a  Historic 
Survey.  Then  we  have  dense  masses  of  Translation,  some- 
times good,  but  seldom  of  the  characteristic  pieces ;  an  entire 
Iphigenia,  an  entire  Nathan  the  Wise  ;  nay  worse,  a  Sequel  to 
Nathan,  which  when  we  have  conscientiously  struggled  to 
peruse,  the  Author  turns  round,  without  any  apparent  smile, 
and  tells  that  it  is  by  a  nameless  writer,  and  worth  nothing. 
Not  only  Mr.  Taylor's  own  Translations,  which  are  generally 
good,  but  contributions  from  a  whole  body  of  labourers  in 
that  department  are  given :  for  example,  near  sixty  pages, 
very  ill  rendered  by  a  Miss  Plumtre,  of  a  Life  of  Kotzebue, 
concerning  whom,  or  whose  life,  death  or  burial,  there  is  now 
no  curiosity  extant  among  men.  If  in  that  '  English  Temple 
of  Fame,'  with  its  hewn  and  sculptured  stones,  those  Bio- 
graphical-Dictionary fragments  and  fractions  are  so  much 
dry  rubble-work  of  whinstone,  is  not  this  quite  despicable  Au- 
tobiography of  Kotzebue  a  rood  or  two  of  mere  turf;  which, 
as  ready-cut,  our  architect,  to  make  up  measure,  has  packed 
in  among  his  marble  ashlar ;  whereby  the  whole  wall  will  the 


TAYLOR'S  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY. 


431 


sooner  bulge  ?  But  indeed,  generally  speaking,  symmetry 
is  not  one  of  his  architectural  rules.  Thus,  in  Volume  First, 
we  have  a  long  story  translated  from  a  German  Magazine, 
about  certain  antique  Hyperborean  Baresarks,  amusing 
enough,  but  with  no  more  reference  to  Germany  than  to 
England  ;  while  in  return  the  Jfibehingen  Lied  is  despatched 
in  something  less  than  one  line,  and  comes  no  more  to  light. 
Tyll  Eulenspiegel,  who  was  not  an  '  anonymous  Satire,  enti- 
tled the  Mirror  of  Owls,'  but  a  real  flesh-and-blood  hero  of 
that  name,  whose  tombstone  is  standing  to  this  day  near  Lu- 
beck,  has  some  four  lines  for  his  share  ;  Reineke  de  Fos  about 
as  many,  which  also  are  inaccurate.  Again,  if  Wieland  have 
his  half-volume,  and  poor  Ernst  Schulze,  poor  Zacharias  Wer- 
ner, and  numerous  other  poor  men,  each  his  chapter ;  Luther 
also  has  his  two  sentences,  and  is  in  these  weighed  against 
—  Dr.  Isaac  Watts.  Ulrich  Hutten  does  not  occur  here ; 
Hans  Sachs  and  his  Master-singers  escape  notice,  or  even 
do  worse ;  the  poetry  of  the  Reformation  is  not  alluded  to. 
The  name  of  Jean  Paul  Friedrich  Richter  appears  not  to 
be  known  to  Mr.  Taylor ;  or,  if  want  of  rhyme  was  to  be 
the  test  of  a  Prosaist,  how  comes  Salomon  Gesner  here  ? 
Stranger  still,  Ludwig  Tieck  is  not  once  mentioned  ;  neither 
is  Novalis;  neither  is  Maler  Miiller.  But  why  dwell  on 
these  omissions  and  commissions  ?  Is  not  all  included  in  this 
one  wellnigh  incredible  fact,  that  one  of  the  largest  articles 
in  the  Book,  a  tenth  part  of  the  whole  Historic  Survey  of 
German  Poetry,  treats  of  that  delectable  genius,  August  von 
Kotzebue  ? 

The  truth  is,  this  Historic  Survey  has  not  anything  histor- 
ical in  it ;  but  is  a  mere  aggregate  of  Dissertations,  Trans- 
lations, Notices  and  Notes,  bound  together  indeed  by  the 
circumstance  that  they  are  all  about  German  Poetry,  1  about 
it  and  about  it ; '  also  by  the  sequence  of  time,  and  still  more 
strongly  by  the  Bookbinder's  pack-thread ;  but  by  no  other 
sufficient  tie  whatever.  The  authentic  title,  were  not  some 
mercantile  varnish  allowable  in  such  cases,  might  be  :  '  Gen- 


432 


MISCELLANIES. 


'eral  Jail-delivery  of  all  Publications  and  Manuscripts,  orig- 
'  inal  or  translated,  composed  or  borrowed,  on  the  subject  of 
'  German  Poetry  ;  by  '  &c. 

To  such  Jail-delivery,  at  least  when  it  is  from  the  prison 
of  Mr.  Taylor's  Desk  at  Norwich,  and  relates  to  a  subject  in 
the  actual  predicament  of  German  Poetry  among  us,  we 
have  no  fundamental  objection :  and  for  the  name,  now  that 
it  is  explained,  there  is  nothing  in  a  name ;  a  rose  by  any 
other  name  would  smell  as  sweet.  However,  even  in  this 
lower  and  lowest  point  of  view,  the  Historic  Survey  is  liable 
to  grave  objections  ;  its  worth  is  of  no  unmixed  character. 
We  mentioned  that  Mr.  Taylor  did  not  often  cite  authorities : 
for  which  doubtless  he  may  have  his  reasons.  If  it  be  not 
from  French  Prefaces,  and  the  Bioyraphie  Universale,  and 
other  the  like  sources,  we  confess  ourselves  altogether  at  a 
loss  to  divine  whence  any  reasonable  individual  gathered 
such  notices  as  these.  Books  indeed  are  scarce ;  but  the 
most  untoward  situation  may  command  Wachler's  Vorlesun- 
gen,  Horn's  Poesie  und  Beredsamkeit,  Meister's  Characteris- 
tihen,  Koch's  Compendium,  or  some  of  the  thousand-and-one 
compilations  of  that  sort,  numerous  and  accurate  in  German, 
more  man  in  any  other  literature:  at  all  events,  Jordens's 
Lexicon  Deutscher  Dichter  und  Prosaisten,  and  the  world- 
renowned  Leipzig  Conversations-Lexicon.  No  one  of  these 
appears  to  have  been  in  Mr.  Taylor's  possession  ;  —  Bouter- 
wek  alone,  and  him  he  seems  to  have  consulted  perfunctorily. 
A  certain  proportion  of  errors  in  such  a  work  is  pardonable 
and  unavoidable :  scarcely  so  the  proportion  observed  here. 
The  Historic  Survey  abounds  with  errors,  perhaps  beyond 
any  book  it  has  ever  been  our  lot  to  review.  Of  these  in- 
deed many  are  harmless  enough:  as,  for  instance,  where  we 
learn  that  Gorres  was  born  in  1804  (not  in  177G)  :  though 
in  that  case  he  must  have  published  his  Shah-Nameh  at  the 
age  of  three  years  :  or  where  it  is  said  that  Werner's  epi- 
taph '  begs  Mary  Magdalene  to  pray  for  his  soul,'  which  it 
does  not  do,  if  indeed  any  one  cared  what  it  did.    Some  are 


TAYLOR'S  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  433 


of  a  quite  mysterious  nature ;  either  impregnated  with  a  wit 
which  continues  obstinately  latent,  or  indicating  that,  in  spite 
of  Railways  and  Newspapers,  some  portions  of  this  Island 
are  still  singularly  impermeable.  For  example  :  '  It  ( Gotz 
'  von  Berlichingen)  was  admirably  translated  into  English,  in 
'  1799,  at  Edinburgh,  by  William  Scott,  Advocate ;  no  doubt, 
'  the  same  person  who,  under  the  poetical  but  assumed  name 
'  of  Walter,  has  since  become  the  most  extensively  popular  of 
\  the  British  writers.'  —  Others  again  are  the  fruit  of  a  more 
culpable  ignorance ;  as  when  we  hear  that  Goethe's  Dichtung 
und  Wahrheit  is  literally  meant  to  be  a  fictitious  narrative, 
and  no  genuine  Biography ;  that  his  Stella  ends  quietly  in 
Bigamy  (to  Mr.  Taylor's  satisfaction),  which,  however  the 
French  translation  may  run,  in  the  original  it  certainly  does 
not.  Mr.  Taylor  likewise  complains  that  his  copy  of  Faust 
is  incomplete  :  so,  we  grieve  to  state,  is  ours.  Still  worse  is 
it  when  speaking  of  distinguished  men,  who  probably  have 
been  at  pains  to  veil  their  sentiments  on  certain  subjects,  our 
Author  takes  it  upon  him  to  lift  such  veil,  and  with  perfect 
composure  pronounces  this  to  be  a  Deist,  that  a  Pantheist, 
that  other  an  Atheist,  often  without  any  due  foundation.  It 
is  quite  erroneous,  for  example,  to  describe  Schiller  by  any 
such  unhappy  term  as  that  of  Deist :  it  is  very  particularly 
erroneous  to  say  that  Goethe  anywhere  4  avows  himself  an 
Atheist,'  that  he  '  is  a  Pantheist ; '  —  indeed,  that  he  is,  was, 
or  is  like  to  be  any  ist  to  which  Mr.  Taylor  would  attach  just 
meaning. 

But  on  the  whole,  what  struck  us  most  in  these  errors  is 
their  surprising  number.  In  the  way  of  our  calling,  we  at 
first  took  pencil,  with  intent  to  mark  such  transgressions  ;  but 
soon  found  it  too  appalling  a  task,  and  so  laid  aside  our  black- 
lead  and  our  art  {ccestus  artemque).  Happily,  however,  a 
little  natural  invention,  assisted  by  some  tincture  of  arith- 
metic, came  to  our  aid.  Six  pages,  studied  for  that  end,  we 
did  mark ;  finding  therein  thirteen  errors :  the  pages  are 
167-173  of  Volume  Third,  and  still  in  our  copy  have  their 
vol.  ii.  28 


434 


MISCELLANIES. 


marginal  stigmas,  which  can  be  vindicated  before  a  jury  of 
Authors.  Now  if  6  give  13,  who  sees  not  that  1455,  the 
entire  number  of  pages,  will  give  3152  and  a  fraction  ?  Or, 
allowing  for  Translations,  which  are  freer  from  errors,  and 
for  philosophical  Discussions,  wherein  the  errors  are  of  an- 
other sort ;  nay,  granting  with  a  perhaps  unwarranted  liber- 
ality, that  these  six  pages  may  yield  too  high  an  average, 
which  we  know  not  that  they  do,  —  may  not,  in  round  num- 
bers, Fifteen  Hundred  be  given  as  the  approximate  amount, 
not  of  errors,  indeed,  yet  of  mistakes  and  misstatements,  in 
these  three  octavos  ? 

Of  errors  in  doctrine,  false  critical  judgments  and  all  sorts 
of  philosophical  hallucination,  the  number,  more  difficult  to 
ascertain,  is  also  unfortunately  great.  Considered,  indeed,  as 
in  any  measure  a  picture  of  what  is  remarkable  in  German 
Poetry,  this  Historic  Survey  is  one  great  Error.  We  have 
to  object  to  Mr.  Taylor  on  all  grounds  ;  that  his  views  are 
often  partial  and  inadequate,  sometimes  quite  false  and  im- 
aginary ;  that. the  highest  productions  of  German  Literature, 
those  works  in  which  properly  its  characteristic  and  chief 
worth  lie,  are  still  as  a  sealed  book  to  him ;  or  what  is  worse, 
an  open  book  that  he  will  not  read,  but  pronounces  to  be 
filled  with  blank  paper.  From  a  man  of  such  intellectual 
vigour,  who  has  studied  his  subject  so  long,  we  should  not 
have  expected  such  a  failure. 

Perhaps  the  main  principle  of  it  may  be  stated,  if  not  ac- 
counted for,  in  this  one  circumstance,  that  the  Historic  Sur- 
vey, like  its  Author,  stands  separated  from  Germany  by 
'  more  than  forty  years.'  During  this  time  Germany  has 
been  making  unexampled  progress  ;  while  our  Author  has 
either  advanced  in  the  other  direction,  or  continued  quite 
stationary.  Forty  years,  it  is  true,  make  no  difference  in  a 
classical  Poem  ;  yet  much  in  the  readers  of  that  Poem,  and 
its  position  towards  these.  Forty  years  are  but  a  small  period 
in  some  Histories,  but  in  the  history  of  German  Literature, 
the  most  rapidly  extending,  incessantly  fluctuating  object 


TAYLOR'S  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  435 


even  in  the  spiritual  world,  they  make  a  great  period.  In 
Germany,  within  these  forty  years,  how  much  has  been 
united,  how  much  has  fallen  asunder  !  Kant  has  superseded 
Wolf;  Fichte,  Kant;  Schelling,  Fichte  ;  and  now,  it  seems, 
Hegel  is  bent  on  superseding  Schelling.  Baumgarten  has 
given  place  to  Schlegel ;  the  Deutsche  Bibliothek  to  the  Berlin 
Hermes:  Lessing  still  towers  in  the  distance  like  an  Earth- 
born  Atlas ;  but  in  the  poetical  Heaven,  Wieland  and  Klop- 
stock  burn  fainter,  as  new  and  more  radiant  luminaries  have 
arisen.  Within  the  last  forty  years,  German  Literature  has 
become  national,  idiomatic,  distinct  from  all  others ;  by  its 
productions  during  that  period,  it  is  either  something  or 
nothing. 

Nevertheless  it  is  still  at  the  distance  of  forty  years,  some- 
times we  think  it  must  be  fifty,  that  Mr.  Taylor  stands.  '  The 
fine  Literature  of  Germany,'  no  doubt  he  has  'imported;' 
yet  only  with  the  eyes  of  1780  does  he  read  it.  Thus  Sul- 
zer's  Universal  Theory  continues  still  to  be  his  roadbook  to 
the  temple  of  German  taste ;  almost  as  if  the  German  critic 
should  undertake  to  measure  Waverley  and  Manfred  by  the 
scale  of  Blair's  Lectures.  Sulzer  was  an  estimable  man, 
who  did  good  service  in  his  day ;  but  about  forty  years  ago 
sank  into  a  repose,  from  which  it  would  now  be  impossible  to 
rouse  him.  The  superannuation  of  Sulzer  appears  not  once 
to  be  suspected  by  our  Author ;  as  indeed  little  of  all  the 
gi-eat  work  that  has  been  done  or  undone  in  Literary  Ger- 
many, Avithin  that  period,  has  become  clear  to  him.  The 
far-famed  Xenien  of  Schiller's  Musenalmanach  are  once 
mentioned,  in  some  half-dozen  lines,  wherein  also  there  are 
more  than  half-a-dozen  inaccuracies,  and  one  rather  egregious 
error.  Of  the  I'esults  that  followed  from  these  Xenien  ;  of 
Tieck,  Wackenroder,  the  two  Schlegels  and  Novalis,  whose 
critical  Union,  and  its  works,  filled  all  Germany  with  tumult, 
discussion,  and  at  length  with  new  conviction,  no  whisper 
transpires  here.  The  New  School,  with  all  that  it  taught, 
untaught  and  mistaught,  is  not  so  much  as  alluded  to.  Schil- 


436 


MISCELLANIES. 


ler  and  Goethe,  with  all  the  poetic  world  they  created,  remain 
invisible,  or  dimly  seen :  Kant  is  a  sort  of  Political  Reform- 
er. It  must  be  stated  with  all  distinctness,  that  of  the  newer 
and  higher  German  Literature,  no  reader  will  obtain  the 
smallest  understanding  from  these  Volumes. 

Indeed,  quite  apart  from  his  inacquaintance  with  actual 
Germany,  there  is  that  in  the  structure  or  habit  of  Mr.  Tay- 
lor's mind  which  singularly  unfits  him  for  judging  of  such 
matters  well.  We  must  complain  that  he  reads  German 
Poetry,  from  first  to  last,  with  English  eyes  ;  will  not  accom- 
modate himself  to  the  spirit  of  the  Literature  he  is  investi- 
gating, and  do  his  utmost,  by  loving  endeavour,  to  win 
its  secret  from  it;  but  plunges  in  headlong,  and  silently 
assuming  that  all  this  was  written  for  him  and  for  his  objects, 
makes  short  work  with  it,  and  innumerable  false  conclusions. 
It  is  sad  to  see  an  honest  traveller  confidently  gauging  all 
foreign  objects  with  a  measure  that  will  not  mete  them  ;  try- 
ing German  Sacred  Oaks  by  their  fitness  for  British  ship- 
building ;  walking  from  Dan  to  Beersheba,  and  finding  so 
little  that  he  did  not  bring  with  him.  This,  we  are  too  well 
aware,  is  the  commonest  of  all  errors,  both  with  vulgar  read- 
ers and  with  vulgar  critics  ;  but  from  Mr.  Taylor  we  had 
expected  something  better ;  nay  let  us  confess,  he  himself 
now  and  then  seems  to  attempt  something  better,  but  too 
imperfectly  succeeds  in  it. 

The  truth  is,  Mr.  Taylor,  though  a  man  of  talent,  as  we 
have  often  admitted,  and  as  the  world  well  knows,  though  a 
downright,  independent  and  to  all  appearance  most  praise- 
worthy man,  is  one  of  the  most  peculiar  critics  to  be  found 
in  our  times.  As  we  construe  him  from  these  Volumes,  the 
basis  of  his  nature  seems  to  be  Polemical ;  his  whole  view  of 
the  world,  of  its  Poetry,  and  whatever  else  it  holds,  has  a 
militant  character.  According  to  this  philosophy,  the  whole 
duty  of  man,  it  would  almost  appear,  is  to  lay  aside  the 
opinion  of  his  grandfather.  Doubtless,  it  is  natural,  it  is  in- 
dispensable, for  a  man  to  lay  aside  the  opinion  of  his  grand- 


TAYLOR'S  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  437 


father,  when  it  will  no  longer  hold  together  on  him  ;  but  we 
had  imagined  that  the  great  and  infinitely  harder  duty  was : 
To  turn  the  opinion  that  does  hold  together  to  some  account. 
However,  it  is  not  in  receiving  the  New,  and  creating  good 
with  it,  but  solely  in  pulling  to  .pieces  the  Old,  that  Mr. 
Taylor  will  have  us  employed.  Often,  in  the  course  of  these 
pages,  might  the  British  reader  sorrowfully  exclaim :  "  Alas  ! 
is  this  the  year  of  grace  1831,  and  are  we  still  here  ?  Armed 
with  the  hatchet  and  tinder-box  ;  still  no  symptom  of  the 
sower's-sheet  and  plough  ?  "  These  latter,  for  our  Author, 
are  implements  of  the  dark  ages  ;  the  ground  is  full  of  thistles 
and  jungle;  cut  down  and  spare  not.  A  singular  aversion 
to  Priests,  something  like  a  natural  horror  and  hydrophobia, 
gives  him  no  rest  night  nor  day  ;  the  gist  of  all  his  specu- 
lations is  to  drive  down  more  or  less  effectual  palisades 
against  that  class  of  persons ;  nothing  that  he  does  but  they 
interfere  with  or  threaten  :  the  first  question  he  asks  of 
every  passer-by,  be  it  German  Poet,  Philosopher,  Farce- 
writer,  is  :  "  Arian  or  Trinitarian  ?  Wilt  thou  help  me  or 
not  ?  "  Long  as  he  has  now  laboured,  and  though  calling 
himself  Philosopher,  Mr.  Taylor  has  not  yet  succeeded  in 
sweeping  his  arena  clear ;  but  still  painfully  struggles  in  the 
questions  of  Naturalism  and  Supernaturalism,  Liberalism 
and  Servilism. 

Agitated  by  this  zeal,  with  its  fitful  hope  and  fear,  it  is 
that  he  goes  through  Germany  ;  scenting  out  Infidelity  with 
the  nose  of  an  ancient  Heresy-hunter,  though  for  opposite 
purposes  ;  and,  like  a  recruiting-sergeant,  beating  aloud  for 
recruits ;  nay,  where  in  any  corner  he  can  spy  a  tall  man, 
clutching  at  him,  to  crimp  him  or  impress  him.  Goethe's 
and  Schiller's  creed  we  saw  specified  above  ;  those  of  Les- 
sing  and  Herder  are  scarcely  less  edifying  ;  but  take  rather 
this  sagacious  exposition  of  Kant's  Philosophy : 

'  The  Alexandrian  writings  do  not  differ  so  widely  as  is  commonly 
apprehended  from  those  of  the  Konigsberg  School ;  for  they  abound 
with  passages,  which,  while  they  seem  to  flatter  the  popular  credulity, 


438 


MISCELLANIES. 


resolve  into  allegory  the  stories  of  the  gods,  and  into  an  illustrative 
personification  the  soul  of  the  world  ;  thus  insinuating,  to  the  more 
alert  and  penetrating,  the  speculative  rejection  of  opinions  with 
which  they  are  encouraged  and  commanded  in  action  to  comply. 
With  analogous  spirit,  Professor  Kant  studiously  introduces  a  dis- 
tinction between  Practical  and  Theoretical  Reason ;  and  while  he 
teaches  that  rational  conduct  will  indulge  the  hypothesis  of  a  God,  a 
revelation,  and  a  future  state  (this,  we  presume,  is  meant  by  calling 
them  inferences  of  Practical  Reason),  he  pretends  that  Theoretical 
Reason  can  adduce  no  one  satisfactory  argument  in  their  behalf :  so 
that  his  morality  amounts  to  a  defence  of  the  old  adage,  "  Think 
with  the  wise,  and  act  with  the  vulgar ; "  a  plan  of  behaviour  which 
secures  to  the  vulgar  an  ultimate  victory  over  the  wise.  *  *  * 
Philosophy  is  to  be  withdrawn  within  a  narrower  circle  of  the  initi- 
ated;  and  these  must  be  induced  to  conspire  in  favouring  a  vulgar 
superstition.  This  can  best  be  accomplished  by  enveloping  with 
enigmatic  jargon  the  topics  of  discussion  ;  by  employing  a  cloudy 
phraseology,  which  may  intercept  from  below  the  war-whoop  of 
impiety,  and  from  above  the  evulgation  of  infidelity  ;  by  contriving  a 
kind  of  "  cipher  of  illuminism,"  in  which  public  discussions  of  the 
most  critical  nature  can  be  carried  on  from  the  press,  without  alarm- 
ing the  prejudices  of  the  people,  or  exciting  the  precautions  of  the 
magistrate.  Such  a  cipher,  in  the  hands  of  an  adept,  is  the  dialect 
of  Kant.  Add  to  this,  the  notorious  Gallicanism  of  his  opinions, 
which  must  endear  him  to  the  patriotism  of  the  philosophers  of  the 
Lyceum  ;  and  it  will  appear  probable  that  the  reception  of  his  forms 
of  syllogising  should  extend  from  Germany  to  France  ;  should  com- 
pletely and  exclusively  establish  itself  on  the  Continent;  entomb 
with  the  Reasonings  the  Reason  of  the  modern  world ;  and  form  the 
tasteless  fretwork  which  seems  about  to  convert  the  halls  of  liberal 
Philosophy  into  churches  of  mystical  Supernaturalism.' 

These  are  indeed  fearful  symptoms,  and  enough  to  quicken 
the  diligence  of  any  recruiting  officer  that  has  the  good  cause 
at  heart.  Reasonably  may  such  officer,  beleaguered  with 
'  witchcraft  and  demonology,  trinitarianism,  intolerance,'  and 
a  considerable  list  of  et-ceteras,  and  still  seeing  no  hearty  fol- 
lowers of  his  flag,  but  a  mere  Falstaff  regiment,  smite  upon 
his  thigh,  and,  in  moments  of  despondency,  lament  that 
Christianity  had  ever  entered,  or  as  we  here  have  it,  '  in- 
truded '  into  Europe  at  all ;  that,  at  least,  some  small  slip  of 
heathendom,  '  Scandinavia,  for  instance,'  had  not  been  '  left 


TAYLOR'S  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  439 


'  to  its  natural  course,  unniisguided  by  ecclesiastical  mission- 
'  aries  and  monastic  institutions. .  Many  superstitions,  which 
'  have  fatigued  the  credulity,  clouded  the  intellect  and  im- 
'  paired  the  security  of  man,  and  which,  alas  !  but  too  natu- 
'  rally  followed  in  the  train  of  the  Sacred  Books,  would  there, 
'  perhaps,  never  have  struck  root ;  and  in  one  corner  of  the 
'  world,  the  inquiries  of  reason  might  have  found  an  earlier 
'  asylum,  and  asserted  a  less  circumscribed  range.'  Never- 
theless, there  is  still  hope,  preponderating  hope..  '  The 
general  tendency  of  the  German  school,'  it  would  appear, 
could  we  but  believe  such  tidings,  '  is  to  teach  French  opin- 
ions in  English  forms.'  Philosophy  can  now  look  down  with 
some  approving  glances  on  Socinianism.  Nay,  the  literature 
of  Germany,  '  very  liberal  and  tolerant,'  is  gradually  over- 
flowing, even  into  the  Slavonian  nations,  '  and  will  found,  in 
\  new  languages  and  climates,  those  latest  inferences  of  a 
4  corrupt  but  instructed  refinement,  which  are  likely  to  re- 
'  build  the  morality  of  the  Ancients  on  the  ruins  of  Chris- 
'  tian  Puritanism.' 

Such  retrospections  and  prospections  bring  to  mind  an 
absurd  rumour  which,  confounding  our  Author  with  his 
namesake,  the  celebrated  Translator  of  Plato  and  Aristotle, 
represented  him  as  being  engaged  in  the  repair  and  re-estab- 
lishment of  the  Pagan  Religion.  For  such  rumour,  we  are 
happjr  to  state,  there  is  not  and  was  not  the  slightest  founda- 
tion. "Wieland  may,  indeed,  at  one  time,  have  put  some 
whims  into  his  disciple's  head ;  but  Mr.  Taylor  is  too  solid  a 
man  to  embark  in  speculations  of  that  nature.  Prophetic 
daydreams  are  not  practical  projects ;  at  all  events,  as  we 
here  see,  it  is  not  the  old  Pagan  gods  that  we  are  to  bring 
back,  but  only  the  ancient  Pagan  morality,  a  refined  and  re- 
formed Paganism  ;  —  as  some  middle-aged  householder,  if 
distressed  by  tax-gatherers  and  duns,  might  resolve  on  be- 
coming thirteen  again,  and  a  bird-nesting  schoolboy.  Let  no 
timid  layman  apprehend  any  overflow  of  priests  from  Mr. 
Taylor,  or  even  of  gods.    Is  not  this  commentary  on  the 


440 


MISCELLANIES. 


hitherto  so  inexplicable  conversion  of  Friedrich  Leopold 
Count  Stolberg  enough  to  quiet  every  alarmist  ? 

'  On  the  Continent  of  Europe,  the  gentleman,  and  Frederic  Leopold 
was  emphatically  so,  is  seldom  brought  up  with  much  solicitude  for 
any  positive  doctrine  :  among  the  Catholics,  the  moralist  insists  on 
the  duty  of  conforming  to  the  religion  of  one's  ancestors ;  among  the 
Protestants,  on  the  duty  of  conforming  to  the  religion  of  the  magis- 
trate :  but  Frederic  Leopold  seems  to  have  invented  a  new  point  of 
honour,  and  a  most  rational  one,  —  the  duty  of  conforming  to  the 
religion  of  one's  father-in-law. 

'  A  young  man  is  the  happier,  while  single,  for  being  unencum- 
bered with  any  religious  restraints ;  but  when  the  time  comes  for 
submitting  to  matrimony,  he  will  find  the  precedent  of  Frederic 
Leopold  well  entitled  to  consideration.  A  predisposition  to  conform 
to  the  religion  of  the  father-in-law  facilitates  advantageous  matri- 
monial connexions ;  it  produces  in  a  family  the  desirable  harmony 
of  religious  profession  ;  it  secures  the  sincere  education  of  the  daugh- 
ters in  the  faith  of  their  mother;  and  it  leaves  the  young  men  at 
liberty  to  apostatise  in  their  turn,  to  exert  their  right  of  private  judg- 
ment, and  to  choose  a  worship  for  themselves.  Religion,  if  a  blemish 
in  the  male,  is  surely  a  grace  in  the  female  sex  :  courage  of  mind 
may  tend  to  acknowledge  nothing  above  itself;  but  timidity  is  ever 
disposed  to  look  upwards  for  protection,  for  consolation  and  for 
happiness.' 

With  regard  to  this  latter  point,  whether  Religion  is  '  a 
blemish  in  the  male,  and  surely  a  grace  in  the  female  sex,' 
it  is  possible  judgments  may  remain  suspended  :  Courage  of 
mind,  indeed,  will  prompt  the  squirrel  to  set  itself  in  posture 
against  an  armed  horseman ;  yet  whether  for  men  and 
women,  who  seem  to  stand,  not  only  under  the  Galaxy  and 
Stellar  system,  and  under  Immensity  and  Eternity,  but  even 
under  any  bare  bodkin  or  drop  of  prussic  acid,  '  such  courage 
of  mind  as  may  tend  to  acknowledge  nothing  above  itself,' 
were  ornamental  or  the  contrary  ;  whether,  lastly,  religion  is 
grounded  on  Fear,  or  on  something  infinitely  higher  and  in- 
consistent with  Fear, —  may  be  questions.  But  they  are  of 
a  kind  we  are  not  at  present  called  to  meddle  with. 

Mr.  Taylor  promulgates  many  other  strange  articles  of 
faith,  for  he  is  a  positive  man,  and  has  a  certain  quiet  wilful- 


TAYLOR'S  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  441 


ness ;  these,  however,  cannot  henceforth  much  surprise  us. 
He  still  calls  the  Middle  Ages,  during  which  nearly  all  the 
inventions  and  social  institutions,  whereby  we  yet  live  as 
civilised  men,  were  originated  or  perfected,  '  a  Millennium  of 
Darkness  ; '  on  the  faith  chiefly  of.  certain  long-past  Pedants, 
who  reckoned  everything  barren,  because  Chrysoloras  had 
not  yet  come,  and  no  Greek  Roots  grew  there.  Again,  turn- 
ing in  the  other  direction,  he  criticises  Luther's  Reformation, 
and  repeats  that  old  and  indeed  quite  foolish  story  of  the 
Augustine  Monk's  having  a  merely  commercial  grudge 
against  the  Dominican ;  computes  the  quantity  of  blood 
shed  for  Protestantism ;  and,  forgetting  that  men  shed  blood 
in  all  ages,  for  any  cause,  and  for  no  cause,  for  Sansculottism, 
for  Bonapartism,  thinks  that,  on  the  whole,  the  Reformation 
was  an  error  and  failure.  Pity  that  Providence  (as  King 
Alphouso  wished  in  the  Astronomical  case)  had  not  created 
its  man  three  centuries  sooner,  and  taken  a  little  counsel  from 
him  !  On  the  other  hand,  '  Voltaire's  Reformation'  was  suc- 
cessful ;  and  here,  for  once,  Providence  was  right.  Will  Mr. 
Taylor  mention  what  it  was  that  Voltaire  reformed  ?  Many 
things  he  «fe-formed,  deservedly  and  undeservedly ;  but  the 
thing  that  he  formed  or  re-formed  is  still  unknown  to  the 
world. 

It  is  perhaps  unnecessary  to  add,  that  Mr.  Taylor's  whole 
Philosophy  is  sensual ;  that  is,  he  recognises  nothing  that 
cannot  be  weighed,  measured,  and,  with  one  or  the  other 
organ,  eaten  and  digested.  Logic  is  his  only  lamp  of  life  ; 
where  this  fails,  the  region  of  Creation  terminates.  For  him 
there  is  no  Invisible,  Incomprehensible ;  whosoever,  under 
any  name,  believes  in  an  Invisible,  he  treats,  with  leniency 
and  the  loftiest  tolerance,  as  a  mystic  and  lunatic ;  and  if  the 
unhappy  crackbrain  has  any  handicraft,  literary  or  other, 
allows  him  to  go  at  large,  and  work  at  it.  Withal  he  is  a 
great-hearted,  strong-minded,  and,  in  many  points,  interesting 
man.  There  is  a  majestic  composure  in  the  attitude  he  has 
assumed ;  massive,  immovable,  uncomplaining,  he  sits  in  a 


442 


MISCELLANIES. 


world  of  Delirium  ;  and  for  his  Future  looks  with  sure  faith, 
—  only  in  the  direction  of  the  Past.  We  take  him  to  be  a 
man  of  sociable  turn,  not  without  kindness  ;  at  all  events  of 
the  most  perfect  courtesy.  He  despises  the  entire  Universe, 
yet  speaks  respectfully  of  Translators  from  the  German,  and 
always  says  that  they  '  english  beautifully.'  A  certain  mild 
Dogmatism  sits  well  on  him ;  peaceable,  incontrovertible, 
uttering  the  palpably  absurd  as  if  it  were  a  mere  truism. 
On  the  other  hand,  there  are  touches  of  a  grave,  scientific 
obscenity,  which  are  questionable.  This  word  Obscenity  we 
use  with  reference  to  our  readers,  and  might  also  add  Pro- 
fanity, but  not  with  reference  to  Mr.  Taylor ;  he,  as  we  said, 
is  scientific  merely ;  and  where  there  is  no  ccenum  and  no 
fanum,  there  can  be  no  obscenity  and  no  profanity. 

To  a  German  we  might  have  compressed  all  this  long 
description  into  a  single  word  :  Mr.  Taylor  is  simply  what 
they  call  a  Philister  ;  every  fibre  of  him  is  Philistine.  With 
us  such  men  usually  take  into  Politics,  and  become  Code- 
makers  and  Utilitarians :  it  was  only  in  Germany  that  they 
ever  meddled  much  with  Literature ;  and  there  worthy 
Nicolai  has  long  since  terminated  his  Jesuit-hunt ;  no  Ade- 
lung  now  writes  books,  Ueber  die  N'ulzlichkeit  der  Empjindung 
(On  the  Utility  of  Feeling).  Singular  enough,  now,  when 
that  old  species  had  been  quite  extinct  for  almost  half  a  cen- 
tury in  their  own  land,  appears  a  natural-born  English  Phi- 
listine, riiade  in  all  points  as  they  were.  With  wondering 
welcome  we  hail  the  Strongboned  ;  almost  as  we  might  a 
resuscitated  Mammoth.  Let  no  David  choose  smooth  stones 
from  the  brook  to  sling  at  him  :  is  he  not  our  own  Goliath, 
whose  limbs  were  made  in  England,  whose  thews  and  sinews 
any  soil  might  be  proud  of?  Is  he  not,  as  we  said,  a  man 
that  can  stand  on  his  own  legs  without  collapsing  when  left 
by  himself?  In  these  days,  one  of  the  greatest  rarities,  al- 
most prodigies. 

We  cheerfully  acquitted  Mr.  Taylor  of  Religion  ;  but  must 
t-xpect  less  gratitude  when  we  farther  deny  him  any  feeling 


TAYLOR'S  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY. 


443 


for  true  Poetry,  as  indeed  the  feelings  for  Religion  and  for 
Poetry  of  this  sort  are  one  and  the  same.  Of  Poetry  Mr. 
Taylor  knows  well  what  will  make  a  grand,  especially  a 
large,  picture  in  the  imagination  :  he  has  even  a  creative  gift 
of  this  kind  himself,  as  his  style  will  often  testify ;  hut  much 
more  he  does  not  know.  How  indeed  should  he  ?  Nicolai, 
too,  'judged  of  Poetry  as  he  did  of  Brunswick  Mum,  simply 
by  tasting  it.'  Mr.  Taylor  assumes,  as  a  fact  known  to  all 
thinking  creatures,  that  Poetry  is  neither  more  nor  less  than 
'  a  stimulant.'  Perhaps  above  five  hundred  times  in  the 
Historic  Survey  we  see  this  doctrine  expressly  acted  on. 
Whether  the  piece  to  be  judged  of  is  a  Poetical  Whole,  and 
has  what  the  critics  have  named  a  genial  life,  and  what  that 
life  is,  he  inquires  not ;  but,  at  best,  whether  it  is  a  Logical 
Whole,  and  for  most  part,  simply,  whether  it  is  stimulant. 
The  praise  is,  that  it  has  fine  situations,  striking  scenes, 
agonising  scenes,  harrows  his  feelings,  and  the  like.  Schil- 
ler's Robbers  he  finds  to  be  stimulant ;  his  Maid  of  Orleans 
is  not  stimulant,  but  'among  the  weakest  of  his  tragedies, 
and  composed  apparently  in  ill  health.'  The  author  of  Pi- 
zarro  is  supremely  stimulant ;  he  of  Torquato  Tasso  is  '  too 
quotidian  to  be  stimulant.'  We  had  understood  that  alcohol 
was  stimulant  in  all  its  shapes  ;  opium  also,  tobacco,  and  in- 
deed the  whole  class  of  narcotics ;  but  heretofore  found 
Poetry  in  none  of  the  Pharmacopoeias.  Nevertheless,  it  is 
edifying  to  observe  with  what  fearless  consistency  Mr.  Tay- 
lor, who  is  no  half-man,  carries  through  this  theory  of  stimu- 
lation. It  lies  privily  in  the  heart  of  many  a  reader  and 
reviewer ;  nay  Schiller,  at  one  time,  said  that  '  Moliere's  old 
'woman  seemed  to  have  become  sole  Editress  of  all  Re- 
' views;'  but  seldom,  in  the  history  of  Literature,  has  she 
had  the  honesty  to  unveil,  and  ride  triumphant,  as  in  these 
Volumes.  Mr.  Taylor  discovers  that  the  only  Poet  to  be 
classed  with  Homer  is  Tasso ;  that  Shakspeare's  Tragedies 
are  cousins-german  to  those  of  Otway ;  that  poor  moaning, 
monotonous  Macpherson  is  an  epic  poet.    Lastly,  he  runs  a 


444 


MISCELLANIES. 


laboured  parallel  between  Schiller,  Goethe  and  Kotzebue  ; 
one  is  more  this,  the  other  more  that ;  one  strives  hither,  the 
other  thither,  through  the  whole  string  of  critical  predicables; 
almost  as  if  we  should  compare  scientifically  Milton's  Para- 
dise Lost,  the  Prophecies  of  Isaiah  and  Mat  Lewis's  Tales  of 
Terror. 

Such  is  Mr.  Taylor ;  a  strong-hearted  oak,  but  in  an  un- 
kindly soil,  and  beat  upon  from  infancy  by  Trinitarian  and 
Tory  Southwesters :  such  is  the  result  which  native  vigour, 
wind-storms  and  thirsty  mould  have  made  out  among  them  ; 
grim  boughs  dishevelled  in  multangular  complexity,  and  of 
the  stiffness  of  brass  ;  a  tree  crooked  every  way,  unwedge- 
able  and  gnarled.  AVhat  bandages  or  cordages  of  ours,  or 
of  man's,  could  straighten  it,  now  that  it  has  grown  there  for 
half  a  century  ?  We  simply  point  out  that  there  is  excel- 
lent tough  hiee-timber  in  it,  and  of  straight  timber  little  or 
none. 

In  fact,  taking  Mr.  Taylor  as  he  is  and  must  be,  and  keep- 
ing a  perpetual  account  and  protest  with  him  on  these  pecu- 
liarities of  his,  we  find  that  on  various  parts  of  his  subject  he 
has  profitable  things  to  say.  The  Gbttingen  group  of  Poets, 
'  Burger  and  his  set,'  such  as  they  were,  are  pleasantly  delin- 
eated. The  like  may  be  said  of  the  somewhat  earlier  Swiss 
brotherhood,  whereof  Bodmer  and  Breitinger  are  the  central 
figures ;  though  worthy  wonderful  Lavater,  the  wandering 
Physiognomist  and  Evangelist,  and  Protestant  Pope,  should 
not  have  been  first  forgotten,  and  then  crammed  into  an  in- 
significant paragraph.  Lessing,  again,  is  but  poorly  man- 
aged ;  his  main  performance,  as  was  natural,  reckoned  to  be 
the  writing  of  Nathan  the  Wise  :  we  have  no  original  portrait 
here,  but  a  pantagraphieal  reduced  copy  of  some  foreign 
sketches  or  scratches  ;  quite  unworthy  of  such  a  man,  in 
such  a  historical  position,  standing  on  the  confines  of  Light 
and  Darkness,  like  Day  on  the  misty  mountain  tops.  Of 
Herder  also  there  is  much  omitted ;  the  Geschichte  der 
Menschheit  scarcely  alluded  to  ;  yet  some  features  are  given. 


TAYLOR'S  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  445 


accurately  and  even  beautifully.  A  slow-rolling  grandilo- 
quence is  in  Mr.  Taybr's  best  passages,  of  which  this  is  one : 
if  no  poetic  light,  he  has  occasionally  a  glow  of  true  rhetor- 
ical heat.  Wieland  is  lovingly  painted,  yet  on  the  whole 
faithfully,  as  he  looked  some  fifty  years  ago,  if  not  as  he  now 
looks  :  this  is  the  longest  article  in  the  Historic  Survey,  and 
much  too  long ;  those  Paganising  Dialogues  in  particular  had 
never  much  worth,  and  at  present  have  scarcely  any. 

Perhaps  the  best  of  all  these  Essays  is  that  on  Klopstock. 
The  sphere  of  Klopstock's  genius  does  not  transcend  Mr. 
Taylor's  scale  of  poetic  altitudes ;  though  it  perhaps  reaches 
the  highest  gi-ade  there  ;  the  '  stimulant '  theory  recedes  into 
the  background  ;  indeed  there  is  a  rhetorical  amplitude  and 
brilliancy  in  the  Messias,  which  elicits  in  our  critic  an  in- 
stinct truer  than  his  philosophy  is.  He  has  honestly  studied 
the  Messias,  and  presents  a  clear  outline  of  it ;  neither  has 
the  still  purer  spirit  of  Klopstock's  Odes  escaped  him.  We 
have  English  Biographies  of  Klopstock,  and  a  miserable 
Version  of  his  great  Work ;  but  perhaps  there  is  no  writing 
in  our  language  that  offers  so  correct  an  emblem  of  him  as 
this  analysis.  Of  the  Odes  we  shall  here  present  one,  in  Mr. 
Taylor's  translation,  which,  though  in  prose,  the  reader  will 
not  fail  to  approve  of.  It  is,  perhaps,  the  finest  passage  in 
this  whole  Historic  Survey. 

'the  two  muses. 

'  I  saw — tell  me,  was  I  beholding  what  now  happens,  or  was  I  be- 
holding futurity  1  —  I  saw  with  the  Muse  of  Britain  the  Muse  of  Ger- 
many engaged  in  competitory  race,  —  flying  warm  to  the  goal  of 
coronation. 

'  Two  goals,  where  the  prospect  terminates,  bordered  the  career  : 
Oaks  of  the  forest  shaded  the  one ;  near  to  the  other  waved  Palms  in 
the  evening  shadow. 

'  Accustomed  to  contest,  stepped  she  from  Albion  proudly  into  the 
arena ;  as  she  stepped,  when,  with  the  Grecian  Muse  and  with  her 
from  the  Capitol,  she  entered  the  lists. 

'  She  beheld  the  young  trembling  rival,  who  trembled  yet  with 
dignity  ;  glowing  roses  worthy  of  victory  streamed  flaming  over  her 
cheek,  and  her  golden  hair  flew  abroad. 


446 


MISCELLANIES. 


'Already  she  retained  with  pain  in  her  tumultuous  bosom  the  con- 
tracted breath  ;  already  she  hung  bending  forward  towards  the  goal ; 
already  the  herald  was  lifting  the  trumpet,  and  her  eyes  swam  with 
intoxicating  joy. 

'Proud  of  her  courageous  rival,  prouder  of  herself,  the  lofty 
Britoness  measured,  but  with  noble  glance,  thee,  Tuiskone  :  "  Yes, 
by  the  bards,  I  grew  up  with  thee  in  the  grove  of  oaks  : 

'  "  But  a  tale  had  reached  me  that  thou  wast  no  more.  Pardon,  0 
Muse,  if  thou  beest  immortal,  pardon  that  I  but  now  learn  it.  Yon- 
der at  the  goal  alone  will  I  learn  it. 

'  "  There  it  stands.  But  dost  thou  see  the  still  further  one,  and  its 
crowns  also  ?  This  represt  courage,  this  proud  silence,  this  look 
which  sinks  fiery  upon  the  ground,  I  know  : 

' "  Yet  weigh  once  again,  ere  the  herald  sound  a  note  dangerous  to 
thee.  Am  I  not  she  who  have  measured  myself  with  her  from 
Thermopylae,  and  with  the  stately  one  of  the  Seven  Hills  1  " 

'  She  spake  :  the  earnest  decisive  moment  drew  nearer  with  the 
herald.  "  I  love  thee,"  answered  quick  with  looks  of  flame  Teutona, 
"  Britoness,  I  love  thee  to  enthusiasm  ; 

'  "  But  not  warmer  than  immortality  and  those  Palms.  Touch,  if 
so  wills  thy  genius,  touch  them  before  me ;  yet  will  I,  when  thou 
seizest  it,  seize  also  the  crown. 

'  "  And,  0  how  I  tremble  !  0  ye  Immortals,  perhaps  I  may  reach 
first  the  high  goal :  then,  O  then,  may  thy  breath  attain  my  loose- 
streaming  hair !  " 

'  The  herald  shrilled.  They  flew  with  eagle-speed.  The  wide 
career  smoked  up  clouds  of  dust.  I  looked.  Beyond  the  Oak  bil- 
lowed yet  thicker  the  dust,  and  I  lost  them.' 

'This  beautiful  allegory,'  adds  Mr.  Taylor,  'requires  no 
'  illustration  ;  but  it  constitutes  one  of  the  reasons  for  suspect- 
'  ing  that  the  younger  may  eventually  be  the  victorious 
'  Muse.'  We  hope  not ;  but  that  the  generous  race  may  yet 
last  through  long  centuries.  Tuiskone  has  shot  through  a 
mighty  space,  since  this  Poet  saw  her:  what  if  she  were 
now  slackening  her  speed,  and  the  Britoness  quickening 
hers  ? 

If  the  Essay  on  Klopstock  is  the  best,  that  on  Kotzebue  is 
undoubtedly  the  worst,  in  this  Book,  or  perhaps  in  any  book 
written  by  a  man  of  ability  in  our  day.  It  is  one  of  those 
acts  which,  in  the  spirit  of  philanthropy,  we  could  wish  Mr. 


TAYLOR'S  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  447 


Taylor  to  conceal  in  profoundest  secrecy;  were  it  not  that 
hereby  the  '  stimulant '  theory,  a  heresy  which  still  lurks  here 
and  there  even  in  our  better  criticism,  is  in  some  sort  brought 
to  a  crisis,  and  may  the  sooner  depart  from  this  world,  or  at 
least  from  the  high  places  of  it,  into  others  more  suitable. 
Kotzebue,  whom  all  nations  and  kindreds  and  tongues  and 
peoples,  his  own  people  the  foremost,  after  playing  with  him 
for  some  foolish  hour,  have  swept  out  of  doors  as  a  lifeless 
bundle  of  dyed  rags,  is  here  scientifically  examined,  meas- 
ured, pulse-felt,  and  pronounced  to  be  living,  and  a  divinity. 
He  has  such  prolific  '  invention  ; '  abounds  so  in  '  fine  situa- 
tions,' in  passionate  scenes ;  is  so  soul-harrowing,  so  stimu- 
lant. The  Proceedings  at  Bow-Street  are  stimulant  enough  ; 
neither  are  prolific  invention,  interesting  situations,  or  soul- 
harrowing  passion  wanting  among  the  authors  (true  creators) 
who  promulgate  their  works  there  ;  least  of  all  if  we  follow 
them  to  Newgate  and  the  gallows :  but  when  did  the  Morn- 
ing Herald  think  of  inserting  its  Police  Reports  among  our 
Anthologies  ?  Mr.  Taylor  is  at  the  pains  to  analyse  very 
many  of  Kotzebue's  productions,  and  translates  copiously 
from  two  or  three :  how  the  Siberian  Governor  took  on 
when  his  daughter  was  about  to  run  away  with  one  Ben- 
jowsky,  who  however  was  enabled  to  surrender  his  prize, 
there  on  the  beach,  with  sails  hoisted,  by  'looking  at  his 
wife's  picture  : '  how  the  people  '  lift  young  Burgundy  from 
the  Tun,'  not  indeed  to  drink  him,  for  he  is  not  wine  but  a 
Duke  :  how  a  certain  stout-hearted  West  Indian,  that  has 
made  a  fortune,  proposes  marriage  to  his  two  sisters  ;  but 
finding  the  ladies  reluctant,  solicits  their  serving-woman, 
whose  reputation  is  not  only  cracked,  but  visibly  quite  rent 
asunder  ;  accepts  her  nevertheless,  with  her  thriving  cherub, 
and  is  the  happiest  of  men ;  —  with  more  of  the  like  sort. 
On  the  strength  of  which  we  are  assured  that,  '  according  to 
'my  judgment,  Kotzebue  is  the  greatest  dramatic  genius  that 
'  Europe  has  evolved  since  Shakspeare.'  Such  is  the  table 
which  Mr.  Taylor  has  spread  for  pilgrims  in  the  Prose 


448 


MISCELLANIES. 


Wilderness  of  Life  :  thus  does  he  sit  like  a  kind  host,  ready- 
to  carve ;  and  though  the  viands  and  beverage  are  but,  as  it 
were,  stewed  garlic,  Yarmouth  herrings,  and  blue-ruin,  praises 
them  as  '  stimulant,'  and  courteously  presses  the  universe  to 
fall  to. 

What  a  purveyor  with  this  palate  shall  say  to  Nectar  and 
Ambrosia,  may  be  curious  as  a  question  in  Natural  History, 
but  hardly  otherwise.  The  most  of  what  Mr.  Taylor  has 
written  on  Schiller,  on  Goethe,  and  the  new  Literature  of 
Germany,  a  reader  that  loves  him,  as  we  honestly  do,  will 
consider  as  unwritten,  or  written  in  a  state  of  somnambulism. 
He  who  has  just  quitted  Kotzebue's  Bear-garden  and  Fives- 
court,  and  pronounces  it  to  be  all  stimulant  and  very  good, 
what  is  there  for  him  to  do  in  the  Hall  of  the  Gods  ?  He 
looks  transiently  in  ;  asks  with  mild  authority,  "  Arian  or 
Trinitarian  ?  Quotidian  or  Stimulant  ?  "  and  receiving  no 
answer  but  a  hollow  echo,  which  almost  sounds  like  laughter, 
passes  on,  muttering  that  they  are  dumb  idols,  or  mere  Niirn- 
berg  waxwork. 

It  remains  to  notice  Mr.  Taylor's  Translations.  Apart 
from  the  choice  of  subjects,  which  in  probably  more  than 
half  the  cases  is  unhappy,  there  is  much  to  be  said  in  favour 
of  these.  Compared  with  the  average  of  British  Transla- 
tions, they  may  be  pronounced  of  almost  ideal  excellence  ; 
compared  with  the  best  Translations  extant,  for  example,  the 
German  Shakspeare,  Homer,  Calderon,  they  may  still  be 
called  better  than  indifferent.  One  great  merit  Mr.  Taylor 
has :  rigorous  adherence  to  his  original ;  he  endeavours  at 
least  to  copy  with  all  possible  fidelity  the  turn  of  phrase,  the 
tone,  the  very  metre,  whatever  stands  written  for  him.  With 
the  German  language  he  has  now  had  a  long  familiarity,  and, 
what  is  no  less  essential,  and  perhaps  still  rarer  among  our 
Translators,  has  a  decided  understanding  of  English.  All 
this  of  Mr.  Taylor's  own  Translations  :  in  the  borrowed 
pieces,  whereof  there  are  several,  we  seldom,  except  indeed 
in  those  by  Shelley  and  Coleridge,  find  much  worth  ;  some- 


TAYLOR'S  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  449 


times  a  distinct  worthlessness.  Mr.  Taylor  has  made  no 
conscience  of  clearing  those  unfortunate  performances  even 
from  their  gross  blunders.  Thus,  in  that  '  excellent  version 
'  by  Miss  Plumtre,'  we  find  this  statement :  '  Professor  Mtil- 
'  ler  could  not  utter  a  period  without  introducing  the  words 
'  with  under,  whether  they  had  business  there  or  not ; '  which 
statement,  were  it  only  on  the  ground  that  Professor  Miiller 
was  not  sent  to  Bedlam,  there  to  utter  periods,  we  venture  to 
deny.  Doubtless  his  besetting  sin  was  mitunter,  which  in- 
deed means  at  the  same  time,  or  the  like  (etymologically,  with 
among),  but  nowise  with  under.  One  other  instance  we  shall 
give,  from  a  much  more  important  subject.  Mr.  Taylor  ad- 
mits that  he  does  not  make  much  of  Faust :  however,  he 
inserts  Shelley's  version  of  the  Mayday  Night ;  and  another 
scene,  evidently  rendered  by  quite  a  different  artist.  In  this 
latter,  Margaret  is  in  the  Cathedral  during  High-Mass,  but 
her  whole  thoughts  are  turned  inwards  on  a  secret  shame 
and  sorrow  :  an  Evil  Spirit  is  whispering  in  her  ear ;  the 
Choir  chaunt  fragments  of  the  Dies  irce  ;  she  is  like  to  choke 
and  sink.  In  the  original,  this  passage  is  in  verse ;  and,  we 
presume,  in  the  translation  also,  —  founding  on  the  capital 
letters.    The  concluding  lines  are  these : 

'  MARGARET. 

I  feel  imprison'd.    The  thick  pillars  gird  me. 
The  vaults  low'r  o'er  me.    Air,  air,  I  faint. 

EVIL  SPIRIT. 

Where  wilt  thou  lie  concealed  ?  for  sin  and  shame 
Remain  not  hidden  —  woe  is  coming  down. 

THE  CHOIR. 

Quid  sum  miser  turn  dicturus  f 
Quern  patronum  rogaturus  f 
Cum  vix  justus  sit  securus. 

EVIL,  SPIRIT. 

From  thee  the  glorified  avert  their  view, 
The  pure  forbear  to  offer  thee  a  hand. 
VOL.  H.  29 


450 


MISCELLANIES. 


THE  CHOIR. 

Quid  sum  miser  turn  dicturus  ? 

MARGARET. 

Neighbour,  your  ' 

— Your  what?  —  Angels  and  ministers  of  grace  defend  us!  — 
'■Your  Drambottle?  Will  Mr.  Taylor  have  us  understand, 
then,  that  '  the  noble  German  nation,'  more  especially  the 
fairer  half  thereof  (for  the  '  Neighbour'  is  Nachbarin,  Neigh- 
boured), goes  to  church  with  a  decanter  of  brandy  in  its 
pocket  ?  Or  would  he  not  rather,  even  forcibly,  interpret 
Fldschchen  by  vinaigrette,  by  volatile-salts?  —  The  world  has 
no  notice  that  this  passage  is  a  borrowed  one,  but  will,  not- 
withstanding, as  the  more  charitable  theory,  hope  and  be- 
lieve so. 

We  have  now  done  with  Mr.  Taylor ;  and  would  fain, 
after  all  that  has  come  and  gone,  part  with  him  in  good- 
nature and  good-will.  He  has  spoken  freely  ;  we  have  an- 
swered freely.  Far  as  we  differ  from  him  in  regard  to 
German  Literature,  and  to  the  much  more  important  sub- 
jects here  connected  with  it  ;  deeply  as  we  feel  convinced 
that  his  convictions  are  wrong  and  dangerous,  are  but  half 
true,  and,  if  taken  for  the  whole  truth,  wholly  false  and  fatal, 
we  have  nowise  blinded  ourselves  to  his  vigorous  talent,  to 
his  varied  learning,  his  sincerity,  his  manful  independence 
and  self-support.  Neither  is  it  for  speaking  out  plainly  that 
we  blame  him.  A  man's  honest,  earnest  opinion  is  the  most 
precious  of  all  he  possesses  :  let  him  communicate  this,  if 
he  is  to  communicate  anything.  There  is,  doubtless,  a  time 
to  speak,  and  a  time  to  keep  silence ;  yet  Fontenelle's  cele- 
brated aphorism,  /  might  have  my  hand  full  of  truth,  and 
would  open  only  my  little  finger,  may  be  practised  also  to 
excess,  and  the  little  finger  itself  kept  closed.  That  reserve, 
and  knowing  silence,  long  so  universal  among  us,  is  less  the 
fruit  of  active  benevolence,  of  philosophic  tolerance,  than  of 
indifference  and  weak  conviction.  Honest  Scepticism,  hon- 
est Atheism,  is  better  than  that  withered  lifeless  Dilettanteism 


TAYLOR'S  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY.  451 


and  amateur  Eclecticism,  which  merely  toys  with  all  opin- 
ions ;  or  than  that  wioked  Machiavelism,  which  in  thought 
denying  everything,  except  that  Power  is  Power,  in  words, 
for  its  own  wise  purposes,  loudly  believes  everything :  of 
both  which  miserable  habitudes  the'  day,  even  in  England,  is 
wellnigh  over.  That  Mr.  Taylor  belongs  not,  and  at  no 
time  belonged,  to  either  of  these  classes,  we  account  a  true 
praise.  Of  his  Historic  Survey  we  have  endeavoured  to 
point  out  the  faults  and  the  merits :  should  he  reach  a  second 
edition,  which  we  hope,  perhaps  he  may  profit  by  some  of 
our  hints,  and  i*ender  the  work  less  unworthy  of  himself  and 
of  his  subject.  In  its  present  state  and  shape,  this  English 
Temple  of  Fame  can  content  no  one.  A  huge,  anomalous, 
heterogeneous  mass,  no  section  of  it  like  another,  oriel-win- 
dow alternating  with  rabbit-hole,  wrought  capital  on  pillar  of 
dried  mud ;  heaped  together  out  of  marble,  loose  earth,  rude 
boulder-stone  ;  hastily  roofed-in  with  shingles :  such  is  the 
Temple  of  Fame  ;  uninhabitable  either  for  priest  or  statue, 
and  which  nothing  but  a  continued  suspension  of  the  laws  of 
gravity  can  keep  from  rushing  erelong  into  a  chaos  of  stone 
and  dust.  For  the  English  worshipper,  who  in  the  mean 
while  has  no  other  temple,  we  search  out  the  least  dangerous 
apartments ;  for  the  future  builder,  the  materials  that  will  be 
valuable. 

And  now,  in  washing  our  hands  of  this  ail-too  sordid  but 
not  unnecessary  task,  one  wTord  on  a  more  momentous  object. 
Does  not  the  existence  of  such  a  Book,  do  not  many  other 
indications,  traceable  in  France,  in  Germany,  as  well  as  here, 
betoken  that  a  new  era  in  the  spiritual  intercourse  of  Europe 
is  approaching ;  that  instead  of  isolated,  mutually  repulsive 
National  Literature,  a  World  Literature  may  one  day  be 
looked  for  ?  The  better  minds  of  all  countries  begin  to  un- 
derstand each  other ;  and,  which  follows  naturally,  to  love 
each  other,  and  help  each  other ;  by  whom  ultimately,  all 
countries  in  all  their  proceedings  are  governed. 


452 


MISCELLANIES. 


Late  in  man's  history,  yet  clearly  at  length,  it  becomes 
manifest  to  the  dullest,  that  mind  is  stronger  than  matter, 
that  mind  is  the  creator  and  shaper  of  matter;  that  not  brute 
Force,  but  only  Persuasion  and  Faith  is  the  king  of  this 
world.  The  true  Poet,  who  is  but  the  inspired  Thinker,  is 
still  an  Orpheus  whose  Lyre  tames  the  savage  beasts,  and 
evokes  the  dead  rocks  to  fashion  themselves  into  palaces  and 
stately  inhabited  cities.  It  has  been  said,  and  may  be  re- 
peated, that  Literature  is  fast  becoming  all  in  all  to  us  ;  our 
Church,  our  Senate,  our  whole  Social  Constitution.  The 
true  Pope  of  Christendom  is  not  that  feeble  old  man  in 
Rome ;  nor  is  its  Autocrat  the  Napoleon,  the  Nicholas,  with 
his  half  million  even  of  obedient  bayonets :  such  Autocrat 
is  himself  but  a  more  cunningly-devised  bayonet  and  mili- 
tary engine  in  the  hands  of  a  mightier  than  he.  The  true 
Autocrat  and  Pope  is  that  man,  the  real  or  seeming  Wisest 
of  the  past  age  ;  crowned  after  death  ;  who  finds  his  Hie- 
rarchy of  gifted  Authors,  his  Clergy  of  assiduous  Journalists  ; 
whose  Decretals,  written  not  on  parchment,  but  on  the  living 
souls  of  men,  it  were  an  inversion  of  the  Laws  of  Nature  to 
disobey.  In  these  times  of  ours,  all  Intellect  has  fused  itself 
into  Literature  :  Literature,  Printed  Thought,  is  the  molten 
sea  and  wonder-bearing  chaos,  into  which  mind  after  mind 
casts  forth  its  opinion,  its  feeling,  to  be  molten  into  the  general 
mass,  and  to  work  there  ;  Interest  after  Interest  is  engulfed 
in  it,  or  embarked  on  it  :  higher,  higher  it  rises  round  all  the 
Edifices  of  Existence ;  they  must  all  be  molten  into  it,  and 
anew  bodied  forth  from  it,  or  stand  unconsumed  among  its 
fiery  surges.  Woe  to  him  whose  Edifice  is  not  built  of  true 
Asbest,  and  on  the  everlasting  Rock  ;  but  on  the  false  sand, 
and  of  the  drift-wood  of  Accident,  and  the  paper  and  parch- 
ment of  antiquated  Habit  !  For  the  power,  or  powers,  exist 
not  on  our  Earth,  that  can  say  to  that  sea,  Roll  back,  or  bid 
its  proud  waves  be  still. 

What  form  so  omnipotent  an  element  will  assume  ;  how 
long  it  will  welter  to  and  fro  as  a  wild  Democracy,  a  wild 


TAYLOR'S  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY. 


453 


Anarchy  ;  what  Constitution  and  Organisation  it  will  fashion 
for  itself,  and  for  what' depends  on  it,  in  the  depths  of  Time, 
is  a  subject  for  prophetic  conjecture,  wherein  brightest  hope 
is  not  unmingled  with  fearful  apprehension  and  awe  at  the 
boundless  unknown.  The  more  cheering  is  this  one  thing 
which  we  do  see  and  know :  That  its  tendency  is  to  a  univer- 
sal European  Commonweal ;  that  the  wisest  in  all  nations 
will  communicate  and  cooperate  ;  whereby  Europe  will  again 
have  its  true  Sacred  College,  and  Council  of  Amphictyons  ; 
wars  will  become  rarer,  less  inhuman,  and  in  the  course  of 
centuries  such  delirious  ferocity  in  nations,  as  in  individuals 
it  already  is,  may  be  proscribed,  and  become  obsolete  for- 
ever. 


APPENDIX. 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  EICHTER'S  REVIEW  OF  MA- 
DAME DE  STAEL'S  '  ALLEMAGNE.' 1 

[1830.] 

*%*  There  are  few  of  onr  readers  but  have  read  and  partially  admired 
Madame  de  StaeTs  Germany;  the  work,  indeed,  which,  with  all  its 
vagueness  and  manifold  shortcomings,  must  be  regarded  as  the  pre- 
cursor, if  not  parent,  of  whatever  acquaintance  with  German  Literature 
exists  among  us.  There  are  few  also  but  have  heard  of  Jean  Paul,  here 
and  elsewhere,  as  of  a  huge  mass  of  intellect,  with  the  strangest  shape 
and  structure,  yet  with  thews  and  sinews  like  a  real  Son  of  Anak. 
Students  of  German  Literature  will  be  curious  to  see  such  a  critic  as 
Madame  de  Stael  adequately  criticised,  in  what  fashion  the  best  of  the 
Germans  write  reviews,  and  what  worth  the  best  of  them  acknowledge 
in  this  their  chief  eulogist  and  indicator  among  foreigners.  We  trans- 
late the  Essay  from  Kichter's  Rhine  Biicherscnrm,  as  it  stands  there 
reprinted  from  the  Heidelberg  Jalirbiieher,  in  which  periodical  it  first 
appeared,  in  1815.  We  have  done  our  endeavour  to  preserve  the  quaint 
grotesque  style  so  characteristic  of  Jean  Paul;  rendering  with  literal 
fidelity  whatever  stood  before  ns,  rugged  and  unmanageable  as  it  often 
seemed.  This  article  on  Madame  de  Stael  passes,  justly  enough,  for  the 
best  of  his  reviews;  which,  however,  let  onr  readers  understand,  are  no 
important  part  of  his  writings.  This  is  not  the  lion  that  we  see,  but 
only  a  claw  of  the  lion,  whereby  some  few  may  recognise  him. 

To  review  a  Revieweress  of  two  literary  Nations  is  not  easy ;  for 
you  have,  as  it  were,  three  things  at  once  to  give  account  of.  With 
regard  to  France  and  Germany,  however,  it  is  chiefly  in  reference  to 
the  judgment  which  the  intellectual  Amazon  of  these  two  countries 
has  pronounced  on  them,  and  thereby  on  herself,  that  they  come  be- 
fore us  here.  To  write  such  a  Literary  Gazette  of  our  whole  literary 
Past,  enacting  editor  and  so  many  contributors  in  a  single  person,  not 
i  Fraser's  Magazine,  Nos.  1  and  4. 


456 


APPENDIX. 


to  say  a  female  one  ;  above  all,  summoning  and  spellbinding  the 
spirits  of  German  philosophy  —  this,  it  must  be  owned,  would  have 
been  even  for  a  Villers,  though  Villers  can  now  retranslate  himself 
from  German  into  French,  no  unlieroic  undertaking.  Meanwhile, 
Madame  de  Stael  had  this  advantage,  that  she  writes  especially  for 
Frenchmen ;  who,  knowing  about  German  art  and  the  German  lan- 
guage simply  nothing,  still  gain  somewhat,  when  they  learn  never  so 
little.  On  this  subject  you  can  scarcely  tell  them  other  truths  than 
new  ones,  whether  pleasant  or  not.  They  even  know  more  of  the 
English,  —  as  these  do  of  them,  —  than  of  the  Germans.  Our  invisi- 
bility among  the  French  proceeds,  it  may  be  hoped,  like  that  of  Mer- 
cury, from  our  proximity  to  the  Sun-god ;  but  in  regard  to  other 
countries,  we  should  consider,  that  the  constellation  of  our  New 
Literature  having  risen  only  half  a  century  ago,  the  rays  of  it  are 
still  on  the  road  thither. 

Greatly  in  favour  of  our  Authoress,  in  this  her  picture  of  Germany, 
was  her  residence  among  us  ;  and  the  title-page  might  be  translated 
'Letters  from  Germany'  (de  VAllemagnp),  as  well  as  on  Germany. 
We  Germans  are  in  the  habit  of  limning  Paris  and  London  from  the 
distance  ;  which  capitals  do  sit  to  us,  truly,  —  but  only  on  the  book- 
stall of  their  works.  For  the  deeper  knowledge  of  a  national  poetry, 
not  only  the  poems  are  necessary,  but  the  poets,  at  least  their  country 
and  countrymen  :  the  living  multitude  are  nolo?  variorum  to  the  poem. 
A  German  himself  could  write  his  best  work  on  French  poetry  no- 
where but  in  Paris.  Now  our  Authoress,  in  her  acquaintance  with 
the  greatest  German  poets,  had,  as  it  were,  a  living  translation  of 
their  poems  ;  and  Weimar,  the  focus  of  German  poesy,  might  be  to 
her  what  Paris  were  to  the  German  reviewer  of  the  Parisian. 

But  what  chiefly  exalts  her  to  be  our  critic,  and  a  poetess  herself, 
is  the  feeling  she  manifests  :  with  a  taste  sufficiently  French,  her 
heart  is  German  and  poetic.    When  she  says,1 

'  Toutes  les  fois  que  de  nos  jours  on  a  pu  faire  entrer  un  peu  de  seve 
etrangere,  les  Francais  y  ont  applaudi  avec  transport.  J.  J.  Rousseau, 
Bernardin  de  Saint-Pierre,  Chateaubriand,  &c.  &c,  duns  quelques-uns  de 
leurs  ouvrages,  sont  tous,  meme  a  leur  inscu,  de  l'^cole  germanique,  c'est 
a  dire,  qu'ils  ne  puisent  leur  talent  que  dans  le  fond  de  leur  ame; ' 

she  might  have  classed  her  own  works  first  on  the  list.  Everywhere 
she  breathes  the  aether  of  higher  sentiments  than  the  marsh-miasma 
of  Salons  and  French  Materialism  could  support.  The  chapters,  in 
"Volume  Sixth,  on  philosophy,  depict  what  is  Germanism  of  head 
badly  enough,  indeed  ;  but  the  more  warmly  and  justly  what  is  Ger- 
manism of  heart,  with  a  pure  clearness  not  unworthy  of  a  Herder, 
i  Tom.  ii.  p.  6. 


RICHTER  AND  DE  STAEL. 


457 


For  the  French,  stript  hare  by  encyclopedists,  and  revolutionists, 
and  conscripts,  and  struggling  under  heart-ossification,  and  contrac- 
tion of  the  breast,  such  German  news  of  a  separation  and  independ- 
ence between  Virtue  and  Self-interest,  Beauty  and  Utility,  &c.  will 
not  come  too  late  :  a  lively  people,  for  whom  pleasure  or  pain,  as 
daylight  or  cloudy  weather,  often  hide  the  upper  starry  heaven,  can 
at  least  use  star-catalogues,  and  some  planisphere  thereof.  Many  are 
the  jewel-gleams  with  which  she  illuminates  the  depths  of  the  soul 
against  the  Gallic  lownesses.  Of  this  sort  are,  for  instance,  the  pas- 
sages where1  she  refuses  to  have  the  Madonna  of  Beauty  made  a 
housemaid  of  Utility  ;  where  she  asks.  Why  Nature  has  clothed,  not 
the  nutritive  plants,  but  only  the  useless  flowers  with  charms  ? 

'D'oii  vient,  cependant,  que  pour  parer  l'autel  de  la  Divinity,  on  cher- 
cherait  plutot  les  inutiles  fleurs  que  les  productions  necessaires  ?  D'oii 
vient  que  ce  qui  sert  au  maintien  de  votre  vie  aie  moins  de  dignity,  que 
les  fleurs  sans  but?  C'est  que  le  beau  nous  rappelle  une  existence  im- 
mortelle et  divine,  dont  le  souvenir  et  le  regret  vivent  a  la  fois  dans  notre 
coeur.' 

Also2  the  passages  where,  in  contradiction  to  the  principle  that 
places  the  essence  of  Art  in  imitation  of  Reality,  she  puts  the  ques- 
tion : 

'  Le  premier  des  arts,  la  musique,  qu'imite-t-il '?  De  tous  les  dons  de  la 
Divintte,  cependant,  c'est  le  plus  magnifique,  car  il  semble,  pour  ainsi  dire, 
superflu.  Le  soleil  nous  6claire,  nous  respirons  l'air  du  ciel  serein,  toutes 
les  beaut^s  de  la  nature  servent  en  quelque  facon  a  l'homme;  la  musique 
seule  est  d'une  noble  inutility,  et  c'est  pour  cela  qu'elle  nous  emeut  si 
profondement;  plus  elle  est  loin  de  tout  but,  plus  elle  se  rapproche  de  cette 
source  intime  de  nos  pens^es  que  l'application  a  un  objet  quelconque 
reserre  dans  son  cours.' 

So,  likewise,  is  she  the  protecting  goddess  of  the  higher  feelings  in 
love ;  and  the  whole  Sixth  Volume  is  an  altar  of  religion,  which  the 
Gallic  pantheon  will  not  be  the  worse  for.  Though  professing  her- 
self a  proselyte  of  the  new  poetic  school,  she  is  a  mild  judge  of  sen- 
timentality ; 3  and  in  no  case  can  immoral  freedom  in  the  thing 
represented  excuse  itself  in  her  eyes,  as  perhaps  it  might  in  those 
of  this  same  new  school,  by  the  art  displayed  in  representing  it. 
Hence  comes  her  too  narrow  ill-will  against  Goethe's  Faust  and 
Ottilie.  Thus,  also,  she  extends  her  just  anger  against  a  faithlessly 
luxuriating  love,  in  Goethe's  Stella,  to  unjust  anger  against  Jacobi's 
Woldemar ;  mistaking  in  this  latter  the  hero's  struggle  after  a  free 
i  Tom.  v.  p.  100.         2  Tom.  v.  p.  101.  8  Tom.  v.  oh.  18. 


458 


APPENDIX. 


disencumbered  friendship,  for  the  heart-luxury  of  weakness.  Yet 
the  accompanying  passage1  is  a  fine  and  true  one: 

'  On  ne  doit  pas  se  mettre  par  son  choix  dans  une  situation  ou  la  morale 
et  la  sensibility  ne  sont  pas  d'accord;  car  ce  qui  est  involontaire  est  si 
beau,  qu'il  est  arfreux  d'etre  condamne"  a  se  commander  toutes  ses  actions, 
et  a  vivre  avec  soi-meme  comme  avec  sa  victime.' 

She  dwells  so  much  in  the  heart,  as  the  bee  in  the  flower-cup,  that, 
like  this  honey -maker,  she  sometimes  lets  the  tulip-leaves  overshadow 
her  and  shut  her  in.  Thus  she  not  only  declares  against  the  learning 
(that  is,  the  harmonics  and  inharmonics)  in  our  German  music,  but 
also  against  our  German  parallelism  between  tone  and  word,  —  our 
German  individuation  of  tones  and  words.  Instrumental  music  of 
itself  is  too  much  for  her ;  mere  reflection,  letter  and  science  :  she 
wants  only  voices,  not  words.2  But  the  sort  of  souls  which  take-in 
the  pure  impression  of  tones  without  knowledge  of  speech,  dwell  in 
the  inferior  animals.  Do  we  not  always  furnish  the  tones  we  hear 
with  secret  texts  of  our  own,  nay  with  secret  scenery,  that  their  echo 
within  us  may  be  stronger  than  their  voice  without  1  And  can  our 
heart  feel  by  other  means  than  being  spoken  to  and  answering? 
Thus  pictures,  during  music,  are  seen  into  more  deeply  and  warmly 
by  spectators ;  nay  many  masters  have,  in  creating  them,  acknowl- 
edged help  from  music.  All  beauties  serve  each  other  without  jeal- 
ousy ;  for  to  conquer  man's  heart  is  the  common  purpose  of  all. 

As  it  was  for  France  that  our  Authoress  wrote  and  shaped  her 
Germany,  one  does  not  at  first  see  how,  with  her  depth  of  feeling,  she 
could  expect  to  prosper  much  there.  But  Reviewer3  answereth  : 
The  female  half  she  will  please  at  once  and  immediately  ;  the  male, 
again,  by  the  twofold  mediation  of  art  and  mockery.  First,  by  art. 
Indifferent  as  the  Parisian  is  to  religion  and  deep  feeling  on  the  firm 
ground  of  the  household  floor,  he  likes  mightily  to  see  them  bedded 
on  the  soft  fluctuating  clouds  of  art ;  as  court-people  like  peasants  on 

i  Tom.  v.  p.  180.  2  Tom.  iv.  pp.  123-125. 

3  The  imperial  '  we '  is  unknown  in  German  reviewing  :  the  1  Recensent '  must 
there  speak  in  his  own  poor  third  person  singular  ;  nay  stingy  printers  are  in  the 
habit  of  curtailing  him  into  mere  '  Rez.,''  and  without  any  article  :  '  Rez.  thinks,' 
'  Rez.  says  '  as  if  the  unhappy  man  were  uttering  affidavits,  in  a  tremulous  half- 
guilty  attitude  not  criticisms  ex  eathedrd.,  and  oftentimes  inflatis  bur.ci.i  !  The  Ger- 
man reviewer,  too,  is  expected,  in  many  eases,  to  understand  something  of  his 
subject ;  and,  at  all  events,  to  have  read  his  book.  Happy  England  !  Were  there  a 
bridge  built  hither,  not  only  all  the  women  in  the  world,  as  a  wit  has  said,  but  faster 
than  they,  all  the  reviewers  in  the  world,  would  hasten  over  to  us,  to  exchange  their 
toilsome  mud-shovels  for  light  kingly  sceptres  ;  and  English  Literature  were  one 
boundless,  self-devouring  Review,  and  (as  in  London  routs'  you  had  to  do  nothing, 
but  only  to  see  others  do  nothing.  — T. 


EICHTER  AND  DE  STAEL. 


459 


the  stage,  Dutch  dairies  in  pictures,  and  Swiss  scenes  on  the  plate  at 
dinner ;  nay  they  want  gods  more  than  they  do  God,  whom,  indeed, 
it  is  art  that  first  raises  to  the  rank  of  the  gods.  High  sentiments 
and  deep  emotions,  which  the  court  at  supper  must  scruple  to  express 
as  real,  can  speak  out  loud  and  frankly  on  the  court-theatre  a  little 
while  before.  Besides,  what  is  not  to  be  slighted,  by  a  moderated 
indifference  and  aversion  to  true  feelings,  there  is  opened  the  freer 
room  and  variety  for  the  representation  and  show  thereof ;  as  we 
may  say,  the  Emperor  Constantine  first  abolished  the  punishment  of 
the  cross,  but  on  all  hands  loaded  churches  and  statues  with  the 
figure  of  it. 

Here  too  is  another  advantage,  which  whoever  likes  can  reckon 
in  :  That  certain  higher  and  purer  emotions  do  service  to  the  true 
earthly  ones  in  the  way  of  foil;  as  haply,  —  if  a  similitude  much 
fitter  for  a  satire  than  for  a  review  may  be  permitted,  —  the  thick 
ham  by  its  tender  flowers,  or  the  boar's-head  by  the  citrons  in  its 
snout,  rather  gains  than  loses. 

And  though  all  this  went  for  nothing,  still  must  the  religious  en- 
thusiasm of  our  Authoress  affect  the  Parisian  and  man  of  the  world 
with  a  second  charm  ;  namely,  with  the  genuine  material  which  lies 
therein,  as  well  as  in  any  tragedy,  for  conversational  parody.  In- 
deed, those  same  religious,  oldfashioned,  sentimental  dispositions 
must,  as  the  persiflage  thereof  has  already  grown  somewhat  thread- 
bare and  meritless,  —  they  must,  if  jesting  on  them  is  to  betoken 
spirit,  be  from  time  to  time  warmed  up  anew  by  some  writer,  or,  still 
better,  by  some  writeress,  of  genius. 

With  the  charm  of  sensibility  our  gifted  eulogist  combines,  as 
hinted  above,  another  advantage  which  may  well  gain  the  Parisians 
for  her  ;  namely,  the  advantage  of  a  true  French,  —  not  German,  — 
taste  in  poetry. 

She  must,  the  Reviewer  hopes,  have  satisfied  the  impartial  Paris- 
ian by  this  general  sentence,  were  there  nothing  more.1 

'  Le  grand  avantage  qu'on  peut  tirer  de  l'etude  de  la  literature  alle- 
mande,  c'est  le  mouvement  d' emulation  qu'elle  donne;  il  faut  y  chercher 
des  forces  pour  composer  soi-meme  plutot  que  des  ouvrages  tout  fait,  qu'on 
puisse  transporter  ailleurs.' 

This  thought,  which  2  she  has  more  briefly  expressed  : 

'  Ce  sera  presque  toujours  un  chef-d'oeuvre  qu'une  invention  e^rangere 
arranged  par  un  Francais,1  — 

she  demonstrates8  by  the  words  : 
'  On  ne  sait  pas  faire  un  livre  en  Allemagne:  rarement  on  y  met  l'ordre 
i  Tom.  iv.  p.  86.  a  Page  45.  3  Page  11. 


460 


APPENDIX. 


et  la  mdthode  qui  classent  les  id^es  dans  la  tete  du  lecteur;  et  ce  n'est 
point  parceque  les  Francais  sont  impatiens,  mais  parcequ'ils  ont  1'esprit 
juste,  qu'ils  se  fatiguent  de  ce  deTaut:  les  fictions  ne  sont  pas  dessine'es 
dans  les  poesies  allemandes  avec  ces  contours  fermes  et  precis  qui  en 
assurent  l'effet;  et  le  vague  de  1' imagination  correspond  a  l'obscuiite  de 
la  pensee.' 

In  short,  our  Muses'-hill,  as  also  the  other  Muses'-hills,  the  Eng- 
lish, the  Greek,  the  Roman,  the  Spanish,  are  simply,  —  what  no 
Frenchman  can  question,  —  so  many  mountain-stairs  and  terraces, 
fashioned  on  various  slopes,  whereby  the  Gallic  Olympus-Parnassus 
may,  from  this  side  and  that,  he  conveniently  reached.  As  to  us 
Germans  in  particular,  she  might  express  herself  so  :  German  works 
of  art  can  be  employed  as  colour-sheds,  and  German  poets  as  colour- 
grinders,  by  the  French  pictorial  school ;  as,  indeed,  from  of  old  our 
learned  lights  have  been  by  the  French,  not  adored  like  light-stars, 
but  stuck  into  like  light-chafers,  as  people  carry  those  of  Surinam, 
spitted  through,  for  lighting  of  roads.  Frankly  will  the  Frenchman 
forgive  our  Authoress  her  German  or  British  heart,  when  he  finds, 
in  the  chapters  on  the  '  classical '  and  '  romantic  '  art  of  poetry,  how 
little  this  has  corrupted  or  cooled  her  taste,  to  the  prejudice  of  the 
Gallic  art  of  writing.    After  simply  saying,1 

1  La  nation  francaise,  la  plus  cultiv^e  des  nations  latines,  penche  vers  la 
po^sie  imit^e  des  Grecs  et  des  Romains,' 

she  expresses  this  2  much  better  and  more  distinctly  in  these  words  : 

'  La  po^sie  francaise  etant  la  plus  classique  de  toutes  les  poesies  mo- 
dernes,  elle  est  la  seulequi  ne  soit  pas  repandue  panni  le  peuple.' 

Now  Tasso,  Calderon,  Camoens,  Shakspeare,  Goethe,  continues 
she.  are  sung  by  their  respective  peoples,  even  by  the  lowest  classes  ; 
whereas  it  is  to  be  lamented  that,  indeed, 

'  Nos  poetes  francais  sont  admires  par  tout  ce  qu'il  y  a  d'esprits  eultiv^s 
chez  nous  et  dans  le  reste  de  l'Europe;  mais  ils  sont  tout-a-fait  inconnus 
aux  gens  de  peuple,  et  aux  bourgeois  meme  des  villes,  parceque  les  arts  en 
France  ne  sont  pas,  comine  ailleurs,  natifs  du  pays  meme  oil  leurs  beau- 
tes  se  d^veloppent.' 

And  there  is  no  Frenchman  but  will  readily  subscribe  this  confes- 
sion. The  Reviewer  too,  though  a  German,  allows  the  French  a  sim- 
ilarity to  the  Gree  k  and  Latin  classics  ;  nay  a  greater  than  any  exist- 
ing people  can  exhibit  ;  and  recognises  them  willingly  as  the  newest 
Ancients.  He  even  goes  so  far,  that  he  equals  their  Literature,  using 
a  quite  peculiar  and  inverse  principle  of  precedency  among  the  classi- 
i  Tom.  ii.  p.  60.  2  Page  63. 


RICHTER  AND  DE  STAEL. 


4G1 


cal  ages,  to  the  best  age  of  Greek  and  Latin  Literature,  namely,  to 
the  iron.  For  as  the  figurative  names,  '  golden,'  '  iron  age,'  of  them- 
selves signify,  considering  that  gold,  a  very  ductile  rather  than  a  use- 
ful metal,  is  found  everywhere,  and  on  the  surface,  even  in  rivers, 
and  without  labour ;  whereas  the  firm  iron,  serviceable  not  as  a  sym- 
bol and  for  its  splendour,  is  rare  in  gold-countries,  and  gained  only  in 
depths  and  with  toil,  and  seldom  in  a  metallic  state :  so  likewise, 
among  literary  ages,  an  iron  one  designates  the  practical  utility  and 
laborious  nature  of  the  work  done,  as  well  as  the  cunning  workman- 
ship bestowed  on  it ;  whereby  it  is  clear,  that  not  till  the  golden  and 
silver  ages  are  done,  can  the  iron  one  come  to  maturity.  Always 
one  age  produces  and  fashions  the  next :  on  the  golden  stands  the  sil- 
ver ;  this  forms  the  brass ;  and  on  the  shoulders  of  all  stands  the  iron. 
Thus  too,  our  Authoress  1  testifies  that  the  elder  French,  Montaigne 
and  the  rest,  were  so  very  like  the  present  Germans,2  while  the  young- 
er had  not  yet  grown  actually  classical ;  as  it  were,  the  end-flourishes 
and  cadences  of  the  past.  On  which  grounds  the  French  classics  can- 
not, without  injustice,  be  paralleled  to  any  earlier  Greek  classics 
than  to  those  of  the  Alexandrian  school.  Among  the  Latin  classics 
their  best  prototypes  may  be  such  as  Ovid,  Pliny  the  younger,  Mar- 
tial, the  two  Senecas,  Lucan,  —  though  he,  more  by  date  than  spirit, 
has  been  reckoned  under  our  earlier  periods  ;  inasmuch  as  these  Ro- 
mans do,  as  it  were  by  anticipation,  arm  and  adorn  themselves  with 
the  brass  and  iron,  not  yet  come  into  universal  use.  A  Rousseau 
would  sound  in  Latin  as  silvery  as  a  Seneca ;  Seneca  would  sound  in 
French  as  golden  as  a  Rousseau. 

Nevertheless,  it  is  an  almost  universal  error  in  persons  who  speak 
of  French  critics,  to  imagine  that  a  Geoffroy,  or  a  Laharpe,  in  equal- 
ling his  countrymen  to  the  ancient  classics,  means  the  classics  of  the 
so-called  golden  age.  But  what  real  French  classic  would  take  it  as 
praise  if  you  told  him  that  he  wrote  quite  like  Homer,  like  ^Eschylus, 
like  Aristophanes,  like  Plato,  like  Cicero  ?  Without  vanity,  he  might 
give  you  to  understand,  that  some  small  difference  would  surely  be 
found  between  those  same  golden  classics  and  him,  which,  indeed, 
was  to  be  referred  rather  to  the  higher  culture  of  the  time  than  to  his 
own  ;  whereby  he  might  hope  that  in  regard  to  various  longueurs,  in- 
stances of  tastelessness,  coarseness,  he  had  less  to  answer  for  than  many 
an  Ancient.  A  French  tragedy-writer  might  say,  for  example,  that  he 
flattered  himself,  if  he  could  not  altogether  equal  the  so-named  tragic 
Seven  Stars  of  Alexandria,  he  still  differed  a  little  from  the  Seven  of 
JEschylus.    Indeed,  Voltaire  and  others,  in  their  letters,  tell  us  plain- 

1  Tom.  iv.  p.  80. 

-  The  same  thing  Jean  Paul  had  long  ago  remarked  in  his  Vorschu'.e,  book  iii.  sec. 
779,  of  the  Second  Edition. 


462 


APPENDIX. 


ly  enough,  that  the  writers  of  the  ancient  golden  age  are  nowise  like 
them,  or  specially  to  their  mind. 

The  genuine  French  taste  of  our  Authoress  displays  itself  also  in 
detached  manifestations  ;  for  example,  in  the  armed  neutrality  which, 
in  common  with  the  French  and  people  of  the  world,  she  maintains 
towards  the  middle  ranks.  Peasants  and  Swiss,  indeed,  make  their 
appearance,  idyl-wise,  in  French  Literature  ;  and  a  shepherd  is  as 
good  as  a  shepherdess.  Artists  too  are  admitted  by  these  people  : 
partly  as  the  sort  of  undefined  comets  that  gyrate  equally  through 
suns,  earths  and  satellites  ;  partly  as  the  individual  servants  of  their 
luxury  ;  and  an  actress  in  person  is  often  as  dear  to  them  as  the  part 
she  plays.  But  as  to  the  middle  rank,  —  excepting  perhaps  the  cler- 
gyman, who  in  the  pulpit  belongs  to  the  artist  guild,  and  in  Catholic 
countries,  without  rank  of  his  own,  traverses  all  ranks,  —  not  only 
are  handicraftsmen  incapable  of  poetic  garniture,  but  the  entire  class 
of  men  of  business,  your  Commerce-AV/is,  Legation,  Justice,  and 
other  Raths,  and  two-thirds  of  the  whole  Address-calendar.  In  short, 
French  human  nature  produces  and  sets  forth,  in  its  works  of  art, 
nothing  worse  than  princes,  heroes  and  nobility  :  no  ground-work 
and  side-work  of  people ;  as  the  trees  about  Naples  shade  you,  when 
sitting  under  them,  simply  with  blossoms,  not  with  leaves,  because 
they  have  none.  This  air  of  pedigree,  without  which  the  French 
Parnassus  receiveth  no  one,  Madame  de  Stael  also  appears  to  require, 
and,  by  her  unfavourable  sentence,  to  feel  the  want  of  in  Voss's  Luise, 
in  his  Idyls,  in  Goethe's  Dorothea,  in  Meister  and  Faust.  There  is  too 
little  gentility  in  them.  Tieck's  Sternhald  finds  favour,  perhaps  not 
less  for  its  treating  of  artists,  than  by  reason  of  its  unpoetical  yet 
pleasing  generalities  ;  for  the  book  is  rather  a.  wish  of  art,  than  a  work 
of  art. 

The  theatre  is,  as  it  were,  the  ichnography  (ground-plan)  of  a  peo- 
ple ;  the  prompter's  hole  (soujfieur)  is  the  speaking-trumpet  of  its  pe- 
culiarities. Our  Authoress,  in  exalting  the  Gallic  coulisses,  and  stage- 
curtains,  and  candle-snuffers,  and  soufHeurs  of  their  tragic  and  comic 
ware,  above  all  foreign  theatres,  gives  the  French  another  and  grati- 
fying proof  of  her  taste  being  similar  to  theirs. 

After  so  many  preliminaries,  the  reader  will  doubtless  expect  the 
conclusion  that  our  Authoress  does  prove  the  wished-for  mediatrix 
between  us  and  France,  and  in  the  end  procures  us  a  literary  general 
pardon  from  the  latter  ;  nay,  that  the  French  are  even  a  little  obliged 
to  her  for  this  approximation.  But  quite  the  contrary  is  the  Review- 
er's opinion. 

On  the  whole,  he  cannot  help  sympathising  with  the  French,  whom 
such  diluted,  filtered  extracts  and  versions  from  the  German  must 


RICHTEB  AND  DE  STAEL. 


463 


delude  into  belief  of  a  certain  regularity  in  us,  whereof  there  is  no 
trace  extant.  Thus,  for  example,  our  Authoress  begins  Faust  with 
this  passage  : 

'  C'est  a  nous  de  nous  plonger  dans  le  turaulte  de  l'activite,  dans  ces 
vagues  e'ternelles  de  la  vie,  que  la  naissance  et  la  mort  e^event  et  preeipi- 
tent,  repousseiit  et  ramenent:  nous  sommes  faits  pour  travailler  a  l'ceuvre 
que  Dieu  nous  recoimnande,  et  dont  le  terns  accomplit  la  traine.  Mais  toi, 
qui  ne  peux  concevoir  que  toi-meme,  toi,  qui  trembles  en  approfondissant 
ta  destined,  et  que  mon  souffle  fait  tressaillir,  laisse-moi,  ne  me  rappelle 
plus.' 

How  shall  a  Frenchman,  persuaded  perhaps  by  such  smooth  sam- 
ples to  study  German,  guess,  that  before  this  passage  could  become 
arable,  the  following  tangle  grew  on  it  : 

'der  geist. 
In  Lebensfluthen,  im  Thatensturm 
Wall'  ich  auf  und  ab, 
Webe  hin  und  her  ! 
Geburt  und  Grab 
Ein  ewiges  Meer, 
Ein  wechselnd  ^Yeben, 
Ein  gliihend  Leben, 

So  schaff'  ich  am  sausenden  Webstuhl  der  Zeit, 
Und  wirke  der  Gottheit  lebendiges  Kleid. 

FAUST. 

Der  du  die  weite  Welt  umschweifst, 
Geschaftiger  Geist,  wie  nah'  fuhl'ich  mich  dir  ! 

DER  GEIST. 

Du  gleichst  dem  Geist,  den  du  begreifst, 
Nicht  mir  ! ' 1 

1  Here  is  an  English  version,  as  literal  as  we  can  make  it  : 

'  THE  SPIRIT. 

In  Existence"  floods,  in  Action's  storm, 
I  walk  and  work,  above,  beneath, 
Work  and  weave,  in  endless  motion  ! 
Birth  and  deatb, 
An  infinite  ocean, 
A  seizing  and  giving 
The  fire  of  living: 

•  Tis  thus  at  the  roaring  Loom  of  Time  I  ply. 

And  weave  for  God  the  Garment  thou  seest  him  by. 


464 


APPENDIX. 


So,  indeed,  is  the  whole  Faust  of  Madame  de  Stael ;  all  fire-colour 
bleached  out  of  it ;  giant  masses  and  groups,  for  example  the  Wal- 
purgisnacht  (Mayday  Night),  altogether  cut  away. 

The  following  passage  (Siebenkds,1  book  i.  sec.  7)  occurs  in  '  the 
Speech  of  the  dead  Christ  from  the  Universe'  (Songe,  she  more 
briefly  translates  the  title  of  it),  where  Christ,  after  saying  that 
there  is  no  God,  thus  continues  : 

'  I  travelled  through  the  worlds,  I  mounted  into  the  suns,  and  flew  with 
the  galaxies  through  wastes  of  heaven;  but  there  is  no  God.  I  descended 
as  far  as  being  casts  its  shadow,  and  looked  into  the  Abyss  and  cried : 
Father,  where  art  thou?  but  I  heard  only  the  eternal  storm,  which  no  one 
guides;  and  the  gleaming  Rainbow  from  the  west,  without  a  Sun  that 
made  it,  stood  over  the  Abyss,  and  trickled  down.  And  when  I  looked  up 
towards  the  immeasurable  world  for  the  Divine  eye,  it  glared  down  on  me 
with  an  empty,  black,  bottomless  eye-socket;  and  Eternity  lay  upon  Chaos, 
eating  it,  and  re-eating  it.  Cry  on,  ye  discords !  cry  away  the  shadows, 
for  He  is  not !  ' 

These  barbaresque  sentences  have,  like  all  the  rest,  grown  into  the 
following  cultivated  ones  : 

'  J'ai  parcouru  les  mondes,  je  me  suis  eleve'  au-dessus  de  soleils,  et  la 
aussi  il  n'est  point  de  Dieu;  je  suis  descendu  jusqu'aux  dernieres  limites 
de  l'univers,  j'ai  regarde"  dans  l'abime,  et  je  me  suis  e'cri^ :  Pere,  oil  es-tu  ? 
mais  je  n'ai  entendu  que  la  pluie  qui  tombait  goutte  a  goutte  dans  l'abime, 
et  l'^ternelle  tempete,  quenul  ordre  ne  r^git,  m'a  seule  r^pondu.  Relevant 
ensuite  mes  regards  vers  la  voute  des  cieux,je  n'y  at  trouve"  qu'une  or- 
bite  vide,  noire,  et  sans  fond.  L'eternite  reposait  sur  le  chaos,  et  le  ron- 
geait,  et  se  d<5vorait  lentement  elle-meme:  redoublez  vos  plaintes  ameres  et 
d^chirantes;  que  des  cris  aigus  dispersent  les  ombres,  car  e'en  est  fait.' 

He  that  loves  the  French  must  lament  that  people  should  decoy 
them  over  to  us  with  beauties  which  are  merely  painted  on  with 
rouge  ;  and  should  hide  not  only  our  fungous  excrescences,  but  our 
whole  adiposity  in  wide  Gallic  court-clothes.  For,  as  Goethe's  Faust 
actually  stands,  every  good  Frenchman,  outdoing  our  Authoress,  who 
wishes  no  second,  must  wish  the  first  — at  Mephistopheles  ;  and  look 
upon  this  written  hell-journey  as  an  acted  Empedocles  one  into  the  cra- 

FAUST. 

Thou  who  the  wide  world  round  outflowest, 
Unresting  Spirit,  how  I  resemble  thee  '. 

THE  SPIRIT. 

Thou  canst  resemble  spirits  whom  thou  knowest, 
Not  me  I  '  —  T. 

1  By  Jean  Paul  himself.  —  T. 


RICHTER  AND  DE  STAEL. 


465 


ter  of  the  German  Muse-volcano.  To  our  Authoress  he  might  even 
say  :  "  Madame,  you  had  too  much  sense  to  lend  your  Germans  any 
of  those  traits,  pointes,  sentences,  that  esprit,  wherewith  our  writers 
have  so  long  enchanted  us  and  Europe.  You  showed  us,  in  the  Ger- 
man works,  their  brightest  side,  their  sensibilite,  the  depth  of  their 
feelings.  You  have  quite  allured  us  with  it.  All  that  offended  your 
taste,  you  have  softened  or  suppressed,  and  given  us  yourself  instead 
of  the  poem  :  tant  rnieux !  But  who  will  give  us  you,  when  we  read 
these  German  works  in  the  original  1  Jean  Jacques  says,  Let  sci- 
ence come,  and  not  the  deceiving  doctor.  We  invert  it,  and  say,  Let 
the  healing  doctoress  come,  and  not  the  sick  poem,  till  she  have  healed 
it." 

The  Reviewer  observes  here,  that  in  the  foregoing  apostrophe 
there  is  as  cramp  a  eulogy  as  that 1  with  which  Madame  de  Stael 
concludes  hers  on  Schiller  : 

'Peude  tems  apres  la  premiere  representation  de  Guillaume  Tell,  le 
trait  mortel  atteignit  aussi  le  digne  auteur  de  ce  bel  ouvrage.  Gesler  p^rit 
au  moment  oil  les  desseins  les  plus  cruels  l'occupaient :  Schiller  n'avait 
dans  son  ame  que  de  geneVeuses  pens^es.  Ces  deux  volontes  si  contraires, 
la  mort,  ennemie  de  tous  les  projets  de  l'liomme,  les  a  de  meme  brisees.' 

This  comparison  of  the  shot  Gesler  with  the  deceased  Schiller, 
wherein  the  similarity  of  the  two  men  turns  on  their  resembling 
other  men  in  dying,  and  thereby  having  their  plans  interrupted, 
seems  a  delicate  imitation  of  Captain  Fluellen,  who  (in  Henry  V.) 
struggles  to  prove  that  Alexander  of  Macedon  and  Henry  Monmouth 
are  in  more  than  one  point  like  each  other. 

But  to  return.  Were  this  castrated  edition  of  the  German  Hercu- 
les, or  Poetic  God,  which  Madame  de  Stael  has  edited  of  us,  desira- 
ble, and  of  real  use  for  any  reader,  it  would  be  for  German  courts, 
and  courtiers  themselves  :  who  knows  but  such  a  thing  might  prove 
the  light  little  flame  2  to  indicate  the  heavy  treasure  of  their  native 
country  ;  which  treasure,  as  they,  unlike  the  French,  have  all  learned 
German  first,  they  could  find  no  difficulty  in  digging  out.  But 
with  such  shows  of  possible  union  between  two  altogether  different 
churches,  or  temples  of  taste,  never  let  the  good,  too-credulous 
French  be  lured  and  balked  ! 

Nay,  the  cunning  among  them  may  hit  our  Authoress  with  her 
own  hand  ;  for  she  has  written  :  3 

1  Tom.  iii.  p.  97. 

2  The  ;  little  blue  flame,'  the  '  Springwurzel'  (start-root),  &e.  &c.,  are  well- 
known  phenomena  in  miners'  magic.  — T. 

3  Tom.  iv.  p.  80. 

VOL.  II.  30 


466 


APPENDIX. 


'Les  auteurs  f1-.m9.ais  de  l'ancien  terns  ont  en  general  plus  de  rapports 
avec  les  Allemands  que  les  exrivains  du  siecle  de  Louis  XIV.;  car  c'est 
depuis  ce  tems-la  que  la  litterature  francaise  a  pris  une  direction  clas- 
sique.' 

And  shall  we  now,  he  may  say,  again  grow  to  similarity  in  culture 
with  those  whom  we  resembled  when  we  had  a  less  degree  of  it  ? 
A  German  may,  indeed,  prefer  the  elder  French  poetry  to  the  newer 
French  verse ;  but  no  Frenchman  can  leave  his  holy  temple  for  an 
antiquated  tabernacle  of  testimony,  much  less  for  a  mere  modern 
synagogue.  The  clear  water  of  their  poetry  will  ever  exclude,  as 
buoyant  and  unmixable,  the  dark  fire-holding  oil  of  ours.  Or  to 
take  it  otherwise  :  as  with  them  the  eye  is  everywhere  the  ruling- 
organ,  and  with  us  the  ear;  so  they,  hard  of  hearing,  will  retain 
their  poet-peacock,  with  his  glittering  tail-mirrors1  and  tail-eyes, 
drawn  back  fan-like  to  the  wings,  his  poor  tones  and  feet  notwith- 
standing ;  and  we,  short  of  sight,  will  think  our  unshowy  poet-larks 
and  nightingales,  with  their  songs  in  the  clouds  and  the  blossoms, 
the  preferable  blessing.  Perhaps  in  the  whole  of  Goethe  there  are 
not  to  be  found  so  many  antitheses  and  witty  reflexes  as  in  one  mov- 
ing act  of  Voltaire  ;  and  in  all,  even  the  finest  cantos  of  the  Messias, 
the  Frenchman  seeks  in  vain  for  such  pointes  as  in  the  Henria.de  exalt 
every  canto,  every  page,  into  a  perfect  holly-bush. 

And  now,  the  Reviewer  begs  to  know  of  any  impartial  man,  What 
joy  shall  a  Frenchman  have  in  literatures  and  arts  of  poetry  which 
advance  on  him  as  naked  as  unfallen  Eves  or  Graces, — he,  who  is 
just  come  from  a  poet-assemble e,  where  every  one  has  his  communion- 
coat,  his  mourning-coat,  nay,  his  winding-sheet,  trimmed  with  tassels 
and  tags,  and  properly  perfumed  ?  What  will  a  Fabre  d'Olivet-  say 
to  such  eulogising  of  a  foreign  literature  1  he  who  has  so  pointedly 
and  distinctly  declared  : 

'  Oui,  messieurs,  ce  que  l'Indostan  fut  pour  l'Asie,  la  France  le  doit  etre 
pour  l'Europe.  La  langue  francaise,  comme  la  Sanscrite,  doit  tendre  a 
('universality  elle  doit  s'enrichir  de  toutes  les  connaissanees  acquises  dans 
les  siecles  passes,  afin  de  les  transmettre  aux  siecles  futurs;  destined  ii 
surnoyer  sur  les  debris  de  cent  idiomes  diverses,  elle  doit  pouvoir  sauver 
du  naufrage  des  temps  toutes  leurs  beautes,  et  toutes  leurs  productions 
remnrquables.' 

When  even  a  De  Stael,  with  all  her  knowledge  of  our  language 

1  In  French  poetry,  you  must  always,  like  the  Christian,  consider  the  latter  end, 
or  the  last  verse;  and  there,  as  in  life,  according  to  the  maxim  of  the  (ircek  sage, 
you  cannot  before  the  end  be  called  happy. 

-  His  Lrs  Vers  Dorrs  du  Pi/llia^ore  expliqucs,  Ifc,  precedes  d'un  Discours  sur  ['Es- 
sence de  Poesir,  1814. 


EICHTER  AND  DE  STAEL. 


467 


and  authors,  and  with  a  heart  inclined  to  us,  continues  nevertheless 
Gallic  in  tongue  and  taste^what  blossom-crop  are  we  to  look  for  from 
the  dry  timber  ?  For,  on  the  whole,  the  taste  of  a  people  is  alto- 
gether to  be  discriminated  from  the  taste  of  a  period  :  the  latter,  not 
the  former,  easily  changes.  The  taste  of  a  people,  rooted  down, 
through  centuries,  in  the  nature  of  the  country,  in  its  history,  in  the 
whole  soul  of  the  body  politic,  withstands,  though  under  new  forms 
of  resistance,  all  alterations  and  attacks  from  without.  For  this 
taste  is,  in  its  highest  sense,  nothing  other  than  the  outcome  and 
utterance  of  the  inward  combination  of  the  man,  revealing  itself 
most  readily  by  act  and  judgment  in  art,  as  in  that  which  speaks 
with  all  the  faculties  of  man,  and  to  all  the  faculties  of  man.  Thus 
poetical  taste  belongs  to  the  heart :  the  understanding  possesses  only 
the  small  domain  of  rhetorical  taste,  which  can  be  learned  and  proved, 
and  gives  its  verdict  on  correctness,  language,  congruity  of  images, 
and  the  like. 

For  the  rest,  if  a  foreign  literature  is  really  to  be  made  a  saline 
manure  and  fertilising  compost  for  the  withered  French  literature, 
some  altogether  different  path  must  be  fallen  upon  than  this  ridicu- 
lous circuit  of  clipping  the  Germans  into  Frenchmen,  that  these  may 
take  pattern  by  them ;  of  first  fashioning  us  down  to  the  French, 
that  they  may  fashion  themselves  up  to  us.  Place,  and  plant  down, 
and  encamp,  the  Germans  with  all  their  stout  limbs  and  full  arteries, 
like  dying  gladiators,  fairly  before  them ;  —  let  them  then  study 
these  figures  as  an  academy,  or  refuse  to  do  it.  Even  to  the  Gallic 
speech,  in  this  transference,  let  utmost  boldness  be  recommended. 
How  else,  if  not  in  a  similar  way,  have  we  Germans  worked  our 
former  national  taste  into  a  free  taste ;  so  that  by  our  skill  in  lan- 
guages, or  our  translations,  we  have  welcomed  a  Homer,  Shakspeare, 
Dante,  Calderon,  Tasso,  with  all  their  peculiarities,  repugnant 
enough  to  ours,  and  introduced  them  undisarmed  into  the  midst  of 
us  ?  Our  national  taste  meanwhile  was  not  lost  in  this  process  :  in 
the  German,  with  all  its  pliability,  there  is  still  something  indeclin- 
able for  other  nations ;  Goethe,  and  Herder,  and  Klopstock,  and  Les- 
sing,  can  be  enjoyed  to  perfection  in  no  tongue  but  the  German  ; 
and  not  only  our  aesthetic  cosmopolitism  (universal  friendship), 
but  also  our  popular  individuality,  distinguishes  us  from  all  other 
peoples. 

If,  one  day,  we  are  to  be  presented  to  foreign  countries,  —  and 
every  German,  proud  as  he  may  be,  will  desire  it,  if  he  is  a  book- 
seller,—  the  Eeviewer  could  wish  much  for  an  Author  like  our 
Authoress,  to  transport  us,  in  such  a  Cleopatra's  ship  as  her's,  into 
England.  Schiller,  Goethe,  Klinger,  Hippel,  Lichtenberg,  Haller, 
Kleist,  might,  simply  as  they  were,  in  their  naturalibus  and  pontijiml- 


468 


APPENDIX. 


ibus,  disembark  in  that  Island,  without  danger  of  becoming  hermits, 
except  in  so  far  as  hermits  may  be  worshipped  there. 

On  the  romantic  i  side,  however,  we  could  not  wish  the  Briton  to 
cast  his  first  glance  at  us  :  for  the  Briton,  —  to  whom  nothing  is  so 
poetical  as  the  commonweal, — requires  (being  used  to  the  weight 
of  gold),  even  for  a  golden  age  of  poetry,  the  thick  golden  wing- 
covers  of  his  epithet-poets  ;  not  the  transparent  gossamer  wings  of 
the  Romanticists ;  no  many-coloured  butterfly-dust ;  but,  at  lowest, 
flower-dust  that  will  grow  to  something. 

But  though  this  gifted  Inspectress  of  Germany  has  done  us  little 
furtherance  with  the  Trench,  nay  perhaps  hindrance,  inasmuch  as 
she  has  spoken  forth  our  praise  needlessly  in  mere  comparisons  with 
the  French,  instead  of  speaking  it  without  offensive  allusions,  —  the 
better  service  can  she  do  us  with  another  people,  namely,  with  the 
Germans  themselves. 

In  this  respect,  not  only  in  the  first  place  may  the  critic,  but  also 
in  the  second  place  the  patriot,  return  her  his  thanks.  It  is  not  the 
outward  man,'  but  the  inward,  that  needs  mirrors.  We  cannot 
wholly  see  ourselves,  except  in  the  eye  of  a  foreign  seer.  The 
Reviewer  would  be  happy  to  see  and  enter  a  mirror-gallery,  or 
rather  picture-gallery,  in  which  our  faces,  limned  by  quite  different 
nations,  by  Portuguese,  by  Scotchmen,  by  Russians,  Corsicans,  were 
hanging  up,  and  where  we  might  learn  how  different^  we  looked  to 
eyes  that  were  different.  By  comparison  with  foreign  peculiarity, 
our  own  peculiarity  discerns  and  ennobles  itself.  Thus,  for  example, 
our  Authoress,  profitably  for  us.  holds  up  and  reflects  our  German 
longueurs  (interminabilities),  our  dull  jesting,  our  fanaticism,  and  our 
German  indifference  to  the  file. 

Against  the  last  error,  —  against  the  rule-of-thumb  style  of  these 
days,  —  reviewers  collectively  ought  really  to  fire  and  slash  with  an 
especial  fury.  There  was  a  time,  in  Germany,  when  a  Lessing,  a 
Winkelmann,  filed  their  periods  like  Plato  or  Cicero,  and  Klopstock 
and  Schiller  their  verses  like  Virgil  or  Horace ;  when,  as  Tacitus, 
we  thought  more  of  disleafing  than  of  covering  with  leaves  ;  in 
short,  of  a  disleafing,  which,  as  in  the  vine,  ripens  and  incites  the 
grapes.  There  was  such  a  time,  but  the  present  has  had  it;  and  we 
now  write,  and  paint,  and  patch  straightforward,  as  it  comes  to  hand, 
and  study  readers  and  writers  not  much,  but  appear  in  print.  Cor- 
rections, at  present,  seem  as  costly  to  us,  as  if,  like  Count  Alfieri,  we 
had  them  to  make  on  printing-paper,  at  the  charges  of  our  printer 
and  purse.    The  public  book -market  is  to  be  our  bleach-green  ;  and 

l  Romantisch,  'romantic,'  it  will  be  observed,  is  here  used  in  a  scientific  sense, 
and  has  no  concern  with  the  writing  or  reading  (or  acting)  of  '  romances.'  — T. 


EICHTEE  AND  DE  STAEL. 


469 


the  public,  instead  of  us,  is  to  correct ;  and  then,  in  the  second 
edition,  we  can  pare  off  somewhat,  and  clap  on  somewhat. 

But  it  is  precisely  this  late  correction,  when  the  former  author, 
with  his  former  mood  and  love,  is  no  longer  forthcoming,  that  works 
with  dubious  issue.  Thus  Schiller  justly  left  his  Robbers  unaltered. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  same  sun-warmth  of  creation  can,  in  a  second 
hour,  return  as  a  sun-warmth  of  ripening.  Writers  who  mean  to 
pay  the  world  only  in  plated  coins  can  offer  no  shadow  of  reason  for 
preferring  first  thoughts  ;  since  the  very  thought  they  write  down 
must,  in  their  heads,  during  that  minute's  space,  have  already  gone 
through  several  improved  editions. 

Still  deeper  thanks  than  those  of  the  critic  to  our  Authoress,  let 
the  patriot  give  her.  Through  the  whole  work  there  runs  a  veiled 
sorrow  that  Germany  should  be  found  kneeling,  and,  like  the  camel, 
raise  itself  still  bent  and  heavy-laden.  Hence  her  complaints1  that 
the  present  Germans  have  only  a  philosophical  and  no  political  char- 
acter;—  farther,  that  the  German,2  even  through  his  moderate  cli- 
mate, in  which  he  has  not  the  extremes  of  heat  and  cold  to  encoun- 
ter, but  without  acquirement  of  hardiness  easily  secures  himself 
against  evils  of  an  equable  nature,  should  be  softening  into  unwarlike 
effeminacy  ;  —  farther,  those  other  complaints,3  about  our  division  of 
ranks,  our  deficiency  in  diplomatic  craft  and  lying ;  about  the  Ger- 
man great,  who,  to  the  tedium  of  the  French  themselves,  still  take 
an  interest  in  Louis  Fourteenth's  mistresses  and  anecdotes.4  Thus 
she  says,5 

'  Les  Allemands  ont  besom  de  d^daigner  pour  devenir  les  plus  forts ; ' 

and  two  lines  lower, 

'  Ce  sont  les  seuls  hommes,  peut-etre,  auxquels  on  pouvait  conseiller 
1'orgueil  comme  un  moyen  de  devenir  meilleurs.' 

'  She  is  almost  right.  Not  as  if,  one  towards  another,  and  in  words, 
we  did  not  set  ourselves  forward,  and  take  airs  enough,  on  printed 
paper  ;  —  each  stands  beside  the  others  with  a  ready -plaited  garland 
for  him  in  his  hand; — but  in  actions,  and  towards  foreigners  and 
persons  in  authority,  it  is  still  to  be  lamented  that  we  possess  but 
two  cheeks  for  the  receiving  of  cuffs,  in  place  of  four,  like  the  Janus- 
head  ;  although,  in  this  cheek-deficiency,  we  do  mend  matters  a  lit- 
tle, when  we — turn  round,  and  get  the  remainder.  During  the 
French  war,  and  in  the  peace  before  it,  there  were  many  statesmen, 
if  not  states  also,  that  considered  themselves  mere  lialf-stuff,  as  rags 

1  Tom.  v.  ch.  11.  2  Tom.  i.  p.  20.  3  Tom.  i-  ch.  2. 

*  Tom.  i.  ch.  9.  5  Tom.  v.  p.  200. 


470 


APPENDIX. 


in  the  paper-mill  are  called,  when  they  are  not  cut  small  enough,  — 
till  once  they  were  ennobled  into  whole-stuff,  when  the  devil  (so,  in 
miller-speech,  let  Napoleon's  sceptre  be  named)  had  altogether 
hacked  them  into  finest  shreds. 

In  vol.  v.  p.  123,  is  a  long  harsh  passage,  where  the  German  sub- 
serviency is  rated  worse  than  the  Italian  ;  because  our  physiognomies 
and  manners  and  philosophical  systems  promise  nothing  but  heart 
and  courage  —  and  yet  produce  it  not.  Here,  and  in  other  passages 
regarding  Prussia,  where 1  she  says, 

'  La  capitale  de  la  Prusse  ressemble  a  la  Prusse  elle-meme:  les  Edifices 
et  les  institutions  ont  age  d'homme,  et  rien  de  plus,  parcequ'un  seul 
homme  en  est  l'auteur,' — 

one  willingly  forgives  her  the  exaggeration  of  her  complaints ;  not 
only  because  time  has  confuted  them,  and  defended  us  and  re-exalted 
us  to  our  ancient  princedoms,  but  also  because  her  tears  of  anger 
over  us  are  only  warmer  tears  of  love,  with  which  she  sees,  in  the 
Germans,  falling  angels  at  war  with  fallen. 

The  Preface  gives  a  letter  from  Police-minister  and  General  Sa- 
vary  to  Madame,  wherein,  with  much  sense,  he  asserts  that  the  work 
is  not  of  a  French  spirit,  and  that  she  did  well  to  leave  out  the  name 
of  the  Ernpereur,  seeing  there  was  no  worthy  place  for  him.  'II  n'y 
pouvait  trouver  de  place  qui  fut  digne  de  lui,'  says  the  General ;  mean- 
ing, that  among  so  many  great  poets  and  philosophers,  of  various 
ages  and  countries,  the  Elbese  would  not  have  cut  the  best  figure, 
or  looked  digne  (worshipful)  enough.  The  gallant  Police-minister 
deserves  here  to  be  discriminated  from  the  vulgar  class  of  lickspit- 
tles, who  so  nimbly  pick  up  and  praise  whatever  falls  from  princes, 
especially  whatever  good,  without  imitating  it ;  but  rather  to  be 
ranked  among  the  second  and  higher  class  (so  to  speak),  who  lick 
up  any  rabid  saliva  of  their  superior,  and  thereby  run  off  as  mad 
and  fiery  as  himself.  Only  thus,  and  not  otherwise,  could  the  Gen- 
eral, from  those  detached  portions  which  the  censor  had  cut  out, 
have  divined,  as  from  outpost  victories,  that  the  entire  field  was  to 
be  attacked  and  taken.  Accordingly,  the  whole  printed  Edition  was 
laid  hold  of,  and,  as  it  were,  under  a  second  paper-mill  devil,  hacked 
anew  into  beautiful  pulp.  Nor  is  that  delicate  feeling  of  the  whilom 
censors  and  clippers  to  be  contemned,  whereby  these  men,  by  the 
faintest  allusion,  smell  out  the  crown-debts  of  their  crown-robber 
(usurper),  and  thereby  proclaim  them.  The  Sphinx  in  Elba,  who, 
unlike  the  ancient  one,  spared  only  him  that  could  not  rede  his  rid- 
dle,—  (a  riddle  consisting  in  this,  to  make  Europe  like  the  Turkish 
grammar,  wherein  there  is  but  one  conjugation,  one  declension,  no  gen- 
i  Tom.  i.  p.  108. 


RICHTER  AXD  DF.  STAEL. 


471 


der.  and  no  exception),  —  could  not  but  reckon  a  description  of  the 
Germans,  making  themselves  a  power  within  a  power,  to  be  ticklish 
matter.  And  does  not  ^the  issue  itself  testify  the  sound  sense  of 
these  upper  and  under  censors  ?  Forasmuch  as  they  had  to  do  with 
a  most  deep  and  polished  enemy,  whom  they  could  nowise  have  had 
understanding  enough  to  see  through,  were  it  not  that,  in  such  cases, 
suspicion  sees  farther  than  your  half-understanding.  She  may  often 
(might  they  say),  under  that  patient  nun-veil  of  hers,  be  as  diplo- 
matically mischievous  as  any  nun-prioress. 

But,  not  to  forget  the  Work  itself,  in  speaking  of  its  fortunes,  the 
Reviewer  now  proceeds  to  some  particular  observations  on  certain 
chapters  ;  first,  however,  making  a  general  one  or  two.  No  foreigner 
has  yet,  with  so  wide  a  glance  and  so  wide  a  heart,  apprehended  and 
represented  our  German  style  of  poetry,  as  this  foreign  lady.  She 
sees  French  poetry,  —  which  is  a  computable  glittering  crystal,  com- 
pared with  the  immeasurable  organisation  of  the  German,  —  really 
in  its  true  form,  though  with  preference  to  that  form,  when  she  de- 
scribes it  as  a  poesie  de  socie'te.  In  the  Vorsckule  der  Aestlietik,1  it  was, 
years  ago.  described  even  so,  though  with  less  affection ;  and  in  gen- 
eral terms,  still  earlier,  by  Herder.  The  Germans,  again,  our  Au- 
thoress has  meted  and  painted  chiefly  on  the  side  of  their  compara- 
bility and  dissimilarity  to  the  French ;  and  hereby  our  own  self-sub- 
sistence and  peculiar  life  has  much  less  clearly  disclosed  itself  to  her. 
In  a  comparison  of  Nations,  one  may  skip  gaily  along,  among  per- 
fect truths,  as  along  radii,  and  skip  over  the  centre  too,  and  miss  it. 

Concerning  the  chapters  in  the  First  Volume,  one  might  say  of 
our  Authoress  in  her  absence  almost  the  same  thing  as  before  her 
face.  For  generalities,  such  "as  nations,  countries,  cities,  are  seized 
and  judged  of  by  her  wide  traveller-glance,  better  than  specialities 
and  poets,  by  her  Gallic,  narrow,  female  taste ;  as.  indeed,  in  general, 
large  masses,  by  the  free  scope  the}'  yield  for  allusions,  are,  in  the 
hands  of  a  gifted  writer,  the  most  productive.  However,  it  is  chiefly 
polite  Germany,  and  most  of  all  literary  Germany,  that  has  sat  to  her 
on  this  occasion ;  and  of  the  middle  class,  nothing  but  the  literary 
heights  have  come  into  view.  Moreover,  she  attributes  to  climate 
what  she  should  have  looked  for  in  history  :  thus'2  she  finds  the  tem- 
perate regions  more  favourable  to  sociality  than  to  poetry,  '  re  sont  les 
'  delicex  du  midi  ou  les  rigueurs  du  nord  qui  ebranlent  fortement  Uimagina- 
'  Hon  : '  therefore,  South  Germany,  that  is,  Franconia,  Swabia,  Bava- 
ria and  Austria.  Now,  to  say  nothing  of  the  circumstance  that,  in 
the  first  three  of  these  countries,  the  alternation  between  the  flower- 
splendour  of  spring  and  the  cloudy  cold  of  winter  raises  both  the 
temperate  warmth  and  the  temperate  coldness  to  the  poetical  degree, 
i  B.  Hi.  k.  2.  2  Tom.  i.  c.  5. 


472 


APPENDIX. 


thereby  giving  them  two  chances,  the  opinion  of  our  Authoress  stands 
contradicted  by  mild  Saxony,  mild  Brandenburg,  England,  Greece, 
on  the  one  hand,  and  by  warm  Naples  and  cold  Russia  on  the  other. 
Nay,  rather  extreme  frost  and  extreme  heat  may  be  said  to  oppress 
and  exhaust  the  poet ;  and  the  Castalian  fountain  either  evaporates 
or  freezes.  On  the  other  hand,  regions  lying  intermediate  between 
these  temperatures  are  those  where  mind  and  poetry  are  met  with 
unshackled. 

In  chap,  ii.,  de  I' esprit  de  conversation,  she  describes  very  justly  the 
art  of  talking  (different  from  the  art  of  speaking)  : 1 

1  Le  genre  de  bienetre  que  fait  £prouver  une  conversation  nnim^e  ne 
consiste  pr£cis£ment  dans  le  sujet  de  conversation;  les  id^es  ni  les  con- 
naissances  qu'on  peut  y  de>elopper  n'en  sont  pas  le  principal  interet; 
c'est  une  certaine  maniere  d'agir  les  uns  sur  les  autres,  de  se  faire  plaisir 
reciproquemcnt  et  avec  rapidity,  de  parler  aussitot  qu'on  pense,  de  jouir 
a  l'instant  de  soi-meme,  d'etre  applaudi  (applaudie)  sans  travail,  de  mani- 
fester  son  esprit  dans  toutes  les  nuances  par  l'accent,  le  geste,  le  regard, 
enfin  de  produire  a  volonte'  comme  une  sorte  d'electricite\  que  fait  jaillir 
des  e^incelles.' 

The  passage 2  where  she  counsels  the  Germans  to  acquire  social 
culture  and  resignation  in  respect  of  social  refinement,  merits  Ger- 
man attention.  It  is  true,  she  should  not,  before  denying  us  and 
prescribing  us  the  French  art  of  talking,  have  said  : 3 

'  L'  esprit  de  conversation  a  quelquefois  V inconvenient  d'alterer  la  sin- 
cerite"  du  caractere;  ce  n'est  pas  une  tromperie  combinee,  mais  improvi- 
see,  si  Ton  peut  s'exprimer  ainsi: ' 

which,  in  plain  language,  signifies,  in  this  art  there  is  one  unpleasant 
circumstance,  that  sometimes  your  honesty  of  heart  suffers  thereby  ; 
and  you  play  the  real,  literal  knave,  though  only  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment,  and  without  special  preparation.  For  the  rest,  it  must  be 
such  passages  as  this,  where  she  denies  us  these  moral  and  aesthetic 
Gallicisms,  allowing  us,  for  compensation,  nothing  but  learning,  depth 
of  heart  and  thought ;  such  passages  it  must  be  by  light  of  which  the 
Journal  de  Paris,  finding  us  denied  not  only  the  tromperie  combinee,  but 
now  even  the  improvis$e,  has  discovered  that  our  Authoress  is  a  secret 
enemy  of  the  Germans;  who  will  surely  (hopes  the  Journal)  get  into 
anger  with  her,  though,  as  always,  not  till  late.  For  sharply  as  she 
attacks  the  French,  she  does  it  only  on  the  moral  side,  which  these  for- 
give the  more  easily  and  feel  the  more  faintly,  the  more  she  is  in  the 
right;  but  we  again  are  assaulted  in  graver  wise,  and  with  other  con- 
sequence, namely  on  the  side  of  our  understanding,  which,  as  com- 
i  Page  G8.  Page  81.  »  Page  70. 


RICHTER  AND  DE  STAEL. 


473 


pared  with  the  Gallic,  in  regard  to  business,  to  knowledge  of  the 
world,  nay  to  combining  and  arranging  works  of  art,  she  everywhere 
pronounces  inferior. 

'  Les  Alleraands  mettent  tres-rarement  en  scene  dans  leurs  comedies 
des  ridicules  tir^s  de  leur  propre  pays;  ils  n'observent  pas  les  autres; 
encore  moins  sont-ils  capables  de  Pexaminer  eux-memes  sous  les  rapports 
exte'rieurs,  ils  croiraient  presque  manquer  a  la  loyaute  qu'ils  se  doivent.' 

To  form  the  plan,  to  order  the  whole  scenes  towards  one  focus  of 
impression  (ejfet),  this,  says  she,  is  the  part  of  Frenchmen  ;  but 
the  German,  out  of  sheer  honesty,  cannot  do  it.  Nevertheless,  our 
Lessing  vowed  that  he  could  remodel  every  tragedy  of  Corneille  into 
more  cunning  and  more  regular  shape  ;  and  his  criticisms,  as  well  as 
his  Emilia  Galotti,  to  say  nothing  of  Schiller  and  all  the  better  Ger- 
man critics,  are  answer  enough  to  Madame  de  Steel's  reproach. 

Three  times,  and  in  as  many  ways,  she  accounts  for  our  deficiency 
in  the  art  of  witty  speech.  First,  from  our  language  :  but  had  she 
forgotten  her  German  when  she  wrote  concerning  it,  '  La  construction 
ne  permet  pas  toujours  de  terminer  une  phrase  par  l' expression  la  plus 
piquante?'*  For  does  not  directly,  on  the  contrary,  our  language, 
alone  among  all  the  modern  ones,  reserve  any  word  it  pleases,  any 
part  of  speech  without  exception  —  nay  sometimes  a  half-word,2  — 
naturally  and  without  constraint,  for  a  dessert-wine  of  conclusion  % 
Madame  de  Stael  should  also,  to  inform  herself,  have  read  at  least  a 
few  dozen  volumes  of  our  epigram-anthologies  with  their  thousand  end- 
stings.  What  do  Lessing's  dialogues  want,  or  our  translations  from 
the  French,  in  regard  to  pliancy  of  language  ?  But,  on  the  whole,  we 
always,  —  this  is  her  second  theory  of  our  conversational  maladroit- 
ness,  —  wish  too  much  to  say  something  or  other,  and  not,  like  the 
French,  nothing  :  a  German  wishes  to  express  not  only  himself,  but 
also  something  else ;  and  under  this  something  we  frequently  include 
sentiment,  principle,  truth,  instruction.  A  sort  of  disgust  comes 
over  us  to  see  a  man  stand  speaking  on,  and  quite  coolly  determined 
to  show  us  nothing  but  himself :  for  even  the  narrator  of  a  story  is 
expected  to  propose  rather  our  enjoyment  in  it  than  his  own  selfish 
praise  for  telling  it. 

In  the  third  place,  we  are  too  destitute,  complains  our  Authoress, 
of  wit,  consequently  of  bon-mots,  and  so  forth.  Keviewer  complains, 
on  the  other  hand,  that  the  French  are  too  destitute  thereof.  A  Hip- 
pel,  a  Lichtenberg,  like  a  Young  or  Pope,  has  more  and  better  wit 

1  Tom.  i.  p.  84. 

2  Paul  has  made  this  very  sentence  an  example  of  his  doctrine;  one  half  of  the 
■word  '  reserve '  (heben)  occurring  at  the  commencement,  the  other  half  (anf)  not  till 
the  end.  —  T. 


474 


APPENDIX. 


than  a  whole  French  decade  will  produce.  French  wit,  reflection-wit 
(Reviewer  here  perfectly  coincides  with  Jean  Paul  in  his  divisions 
of  wit),  surprises  with  one  light  resemblance,  and  with  its  prompt 
visibility,  like  a  French  garden,  only  once  :  British  and  German  wit 
treats  us  with  the  comparison  of  resemblances  reflecting  one  another, 
and  with  the  continuous  enjoyment  of  an  English  garden.  For  the  re- 
perusal  of  Lichtenberg,  Reviewer  commonly  waits  a  year ;  for  the 
reperusal  of  Voltaire  ten  years  ;  for  the  reperusal  of  French  Journal- 
ists sixty  years  ;  for  that  of  Hamann  as  many  minutes.  The  German 
of  spirit  is  almost  ashamed  to  be  so  light-witted  as  a  Frenchman  ; 
and  must  make  an  effort  not  to  make  an  effort.  If  he  do  not  grudge 
the  labour,  he  can  heap  up,  like  Weisse  in  his  Satires,  more  antitheses 
in  a  page  than  a  Frenchman  in  a  book.  Men  of  the  world,  who  in 
German  are  merely  smooth  and  correct,  glitter  in  French  with  witty 
turns ;  it  is  will,  therefore,  that  chooses  here,  not  inability.  One 
may  say,  not  this  and  that  Frenchman,  but  the  whole  French  people, 
has  wit :  but  so  common  a  wit  can,  even  for  that  reason,  be  no  deep 
one. 

What  farther  was  to  be  said  against  our  want  of  French  skill  in 
talking,  Reviewer  leaves  to  the  English,  Spaniards,  Italians,  who  all 
share  it  with  us. 

The  following  passage 1  may  reconcile  the  French  with  our  Au- 
thoress :  'En  France  la  plupart  des  lecteurs  ne  veulent  jamais  etre  6mus, 
'  ni  meme  s'amuser  aux  de'pens  de  leur  conscience  littiraire;  le  scrupule  s'est 
'  rfifugie  la.'  In  p.  13,  she  makes  Hans  Sachs  compose  before  the 
Reformation;  and  in  p.  14,  Luther  translate  the  Psalms  and  the 
Bible.  This  to  a  Frenchman,  who  would  show  literary,  may  be 
detrimental,  if  he  repeats  it.  In  p.  17,  she  finds  a  likeness  between 
Wieland's  prose  and  Voltaire's.  Give  her  or  give  him  Voltaire's  wit, 
conciseness,  lightness,  pliancy,  there  can  be  nothing  liker.  Reviewer 
has  a  comfort  in  having  Wieland  called  at  once,  by  this  class  of  ad- 
mirers, the  German  Voltaire,  and  by  that  other,  the  German  Greek  : 
he  needs  not,  in  that  case,  reflect  and  confute,  but  simply  leaves  the 
speakers  to  their  reciprocal  annihilation.  For  the  rest,  the  whole  of 
this  chapter,  as  well  as  the  twelfth,  lends  and  robs  the  good  Wieland 
so  lavishly,  that  we  rather  beg  to  omit  it  altogether.  His  Comic 
Tales  are,  in  her  view,2  imitees  du  Grcc ;  so  that  most  of  the  French 
painters,  their  subjects  being  mythological,  must  also  be  imitators 
of  the  Greeks.  In  p.  62,  she  must  either  have  misunderstood  some 
Germans,  or  these  must  have  misunderstood  the  Greeks,  when  she 
says  of  Fate,  in  contradistinction  to  Providence,  '  Le  sort  (the  Greek 
Fate)  ne  conipte  pour  rien  les  sentiments  des  homines.'  Sophocles  sevt  n 
times  says  no  to  this  ;  and  as  often  TEschylus.  Nay,  so  inexorably 
1  Tom.  ii.  p.  2.  2  Page  67. 


EICHTER  AND  DE  STAEL. 


475 


does  Fate  pursue  every  immorality,  especially  audacious  immorality, 
that  (unlike  Providence)  it  inflicts  the  punishment,  even  under  re- 
pentance and  reform.  In  p.  90,  she  calls  Klopstock's  Ode  to  his 
Future  Love  a  sujet  manieri  : 

'  Klopstock  est  moins  heureux  quand  il  ecrit  surl'amour:  il  a,  eomme 
Dorat,  adresse'  des  vers  a  sa  maitresse  future,  et  ce  sujet  manier6  n'a  pas 
bien  inspire  sa  muse:  il  faut  n'avoir  pas  souffert,  pour  se  jouer  avec 
le  sentiment;  et  quand  une  personne  serieuse  essaie  un  semblable  jeu, 
toujoui-s  une  contrainte  secrete  l'empeche  de  s'y  montrer  naturelle.' 

How  could  her  soul,  that  elsewhere  responds  to  all  pure-toned 
chords  of  love,  mistake  the  yet  unloved  longing,  wherewith  the  un- 
loved and  yet  loving  youth  looks  into  his  future  heart,  as  with  a 
coming  home-sickness  ?  Does  even  the  prosaic  young  man  paint 
him  an  ideal,  why  shall  not  the  poetical  incorporate  and  draw  nearer 
to  him  the  dear  form  that  is  glancing  for  him,  though  as  yet  unseen  '? 
It  is  true,  this  holds  only  of  the  first  love ;  for  a  poem  on  a  second, 
third  and  future  love,  would  doubtless  merit  the  blame,  which, 
indeed,  she  probably  so  meant. 

The  long  passage  from  Voss's  Louise 1  seems  introduced  to  bring 
even  the  German  reader,  by  the  -bald  translation,  into  a  state  of 
yawning ;  and  the  happier  French  one  into  snoring  and  even  snort- 
ing. Quite  as  unexpectedly  has  she  extracted  from  Maria  Stuart, 
instead  of  bright  lyric  altar-fire,  the  long  farewell  of  Maria,  too  long 
even  for  German  readers,  and  only  for  the  epos  not  too  short;  and 
rendered  it  moreover  in  prose. 

To  Goethe  she  does  justice  where  she  admires  him,  but  less  where 
she  estimates  him.  His  poems  she  judges  more  justly  than  she  does 
his  plays.  Everywhere,  indeed,  her  taste  borders  more  on  the  Ger- 
man when  applied  to  short  pieces  than  to  long  ones  ;  above  all,  than 
to  theatrical  ones ;  for  here  the  French  curtain  shrouds  up  every 
foreign  one.  With  her  opinion  of  Goethe  as  a  literary  man,  the 
Germans,  since  the  appearance  of  his  Autobiography,  may  readily 
enough  dispense. 

Of  ch.  15,  de  I'art  dramatique,  Reviewer  could  undertake  to  say 
nothing,  except  something  ill,  did  time  permit. 

Shakspeare,  in  whose  child-like  and  poetic  serene  soul  (as  it  were, 
a  poetic  Christ-child)  she  celebrates  an  ironie  presque  Machiavellique 
in  delineating  character,  she  ought  to  praise  less  on  hearsay,  since 
neither  hearsay  nor  her  own  feeling  can  teach  her  how  to  praise 
Goethe's  Faust.  It  is  probable  she  knows  only  the  French  (un-souled 
and  un-hearted)  Shakspeare,  and  so  values  the  man;  but  for  Goethe's 
Faust  too,  she  should  have  waited  for  a  French  version  and  perver- 
1  Tom.  ii.  p.  82. 


47G 


APPENDIX. 


sion,  to  give  him  somewhat  better  commendation  than  that  she  sends 
him  to  France  with. 

If  a  translation  is  always  but  an  inverted,  pale,  secondary  rain- 
bow of  the  original  splendour,  Madame  de  StaeTs,  as  in  general  any 
French  translation  of  Faust,  is  but  a  gray,  cold,  mock-sun  to  Goethe's 
real  flaming  Sun  in  Leo.  At  times,  in  place  of  a  pallid  translation, 
she  gives  a  quite  new  speech;  for  example,1  she  makes  the  Devil 
say  of  Faust,  '  Cet  homme  ne  sera  jamais  qu'd  demi  pervers,  et  c'est  en 
'  vain  qu'il  se  flatte  de  parvenir  a.  I'ttre  entitlement.'  In  the  original 
appears  no  word  of  this,  but  merely  the  long,  good,  quite  different 
passage,  '  Verachte  nur  Vtrnunft  und  Wissenschajl,'  $-c.  That  weighty 
omissions  have  prevented  light  translations  in  her  work,  is  happy  for 
the  work  of  Goethe.  This  (like  Dante's  Divine  Comedy)  Diabolic 
Tragedy,  in  which  whole  spiritual  universes  act  and  fall,  she  has 
contracted  and  extracted  into  a  love-tale.  Of  this  sole  and  last  zo- 
diacal light  which  the  set  sun  of  Shakspeare  has  cast  up  over  Ger- 
many, our  lady  Authoress  wishes  heartily2  that  another  such,  or 
more  such,  may  not  be  written.  Reviewer  ventures  to  give  her  hope 
of  fulfilment  herein,  and  pledges  himself  for  all  Frenchmen.  Con- 
sider only : 8 

'  11  ne  faut  y  chercher  ni  le  gout,  ni  le  mesure,  ni  Part  qui  choisit  et  qui 
termine;  mais  si  l'imagination  pouvait  se  figurer  un  chaos  intellectuel  tel 
qu'on  a  souvent  d^erit  le  chaos  materiel,  le  Faust  de  Goethe  devrait  avoir 
6t6  compose'  a  cette  dpoque.' 

Readeresses,  why  will  every  one  of  you  insist  on  thinking  herself  a 
reader  ? 

Her  hard  judgment  on  Faust,  Madame  had  beforehand  softened4 
by  the  praise  she  bestowed  on  Gotz  von  Berlichingen  :  '  (7  y  a  des  traits 
de  ye'iiie  $a  et  Id,'  not  only  here  but  there  also,  '  dans  son  drame.'  Less 
warmly  5  does  she  praise  the  Natural  Daughter ;  because  the  person- 
ages therein,  like  shades  in  Odin's  Palace,  lead  only  an  imaged  life ; 
inasmuch  as  they  bear  no  real  Christian  Directory-names,  but  are 
merely  designated  as  King,  Father,  Daughter,  &c.  As  for  this  last 
defect,  Reviewer  fancies  he  could  remedy  it,  were  he  but  to  turn  up 
his  French  history  and  pick  out  at  random  the  words  Louis,  Orleans, 
&c.  and  therewith  christen  the  general  titles,  father,  daughter ;  for, 
in  the  structure  of  the  work,  Madame  de  Stacl  will  confess  there  are 
as  firm,  determinate,  beheading  machines,  arsenic-hats,  poison-pills, 
steel-traps,  oubliettes,  spring-guns,  introduced,  as  could  be  required  of 
any  court,  whither  the  scene  of  the  piece  might  be  transferred. 

There  is  one  censure  from  our  Authoress,  however,  which  Re- 

i  Tom.  iii.  p.  137.  *  Page  160.  3  Page  127. 

4  Tom.  iii.  p.  402.  &  Page  125. 


RICHTER  AND  DE  STAEL. 


477 


viewer  himself  must  countersign,  though  it  touches  the  sweet  orange- 
flower  garland,  Goethe's  Tasso.  Reviewer  had  been  pleased  to  no- 
tice, in  this  piece,  which"  cannot  he  acted  in  any  larger  space  than 
within  the  chambers  of  the  brain,  no  downcome,  save  the  outcome, 
or  end ;  where  the  moral  knot,  which  can  only  be  loosed  in  Tasso's 
heart,  is,  by  cutting  of  the  material  knot,  by  banishment  from  court, 
left  unloosed  to  accompany  him  in  exile  ;  and  can  at  any  hour  raise 
up  a  second  fifth-act.  This  want,  indeed,  is  not  felt  in  reading  the 
work  so  much  as  after  reading  it.  Our  Authoress,  however,  points 
out 1  another  want,  which,  in  the  piece  itself,  has  a  cooling,  at  least  a 
shadowing  influence  :  that,  namely,  in  the  first  place,  Princess  Leo- 
nora is  drawn  not  according  to  the  warm  climate,  but  rather  as  a 
German  maiden  ;  and  so  thinks  and  ponders  about  her  love,  instead 
of  either  sacrificing  herself  to  it  or  it  to  herself ;  and  that,  secondly, 
the  Poet  Tasso  acts  not  like  an  Italian  accustomed  to  outward  move- 
ment and  business,  but  like  a  solitary  German,  and  unskilfully  en- 
tangles himself  in  the  perplexities  of  life. 

For  the  rest,  her  whole  praise  of  Goethe  will,  in  the  sour  head  of  a 
Frenchman,  run  to  sheer  censure  ;  and  her  censure  again  will  remain 
censure,  and  get  a  little  sourer,  moreover. 

Perhaps  the  kindliest  and  justestof  all  her  portraitures  is  that  of 
Schiller.  Not  only  is  she,  in  her  poetry,  many  times  a  sister  of  Schil- 
ler ;  but  he  also,  in  his  intellectual  pomp  and  reflex  splendour,  is  now 
and  then  a  distant  though  beatified  relation  of  Corneille  and  Crebil- 
lon.  Hence  his  half-fortune  with  the  French  :  for,  in  consideration  of 
a  certain  likeness  to  themselves,  some  unlikeness  and  greatness  will  be 
pardoned.  If  Gallic  tragedy  is  often  a  centaur,  begotten  by  an  Ixion 
with  a  cloud,  Schiller  also,  at  times,  has  confounded  a  sun-horse  and 
thunder-horse  with  the  horse  of  the  Muses,  and  mounted  and  driven 
the  one  instead  of  the  other. 

The  Donau-Nymphe  (Nymph  of  the  Danube)  obtains  2  the  honour 
of  an  extract,  and  the  praise, 

'  Le  sujet  de  cette  piece  semble  plus  ingenieux  que  populaire;  mais  les 
scenes  merveilleuses  y  sont  melees  et  varices  avec  tant  d'art,  qu'elle  amuse 
^galement  tous  les  spectateurs.' 

Reviewer  has  heard  Herder,  more  in  earnest  than  in  jest,  call  the 
ZauberflOte  the  only  good  opera  the  Germans  had. 

After  sufficiently  misunderstanding  and  faint-praising  Goethe's 
Meister  and  Ottilie,3  she  ventures,  though  a  lady,  and  a  French  one, 

1  Tom.  iii.  p.  122.  2  Tom.  iv.  p.  36. 

3  She  finds  Ottilie  not  moving  enough  ;  —  the  Reviewer  again  finds  that  Otti/ie  not 
only  moves  the  heart,  but  crushes  it.  This  more  than  female  YTerter  excites  deeper 
interest  for  her  love  than  the  male  one ;  and,  in  an  earlier  time,  would  have  intoxi- 


478 


APPENDIX. 


to  let  fall  this  and  the  other  remark  about  humeur ;  and,  as  it  were,  to 
utter  a  judgment  (here  Reviewer  founds  on  the  printed  words)  con- 
cerning Swift  and  Sterne.  Sterne's  humour,  in  Tristram,  she  imputes 
to  phraseology ; 1  nay,  to  phrases,  not  to  ideas;  and  infers  that  Sterne 
is  not  translatable,  and  Swift  is.  Nevertheless,  both  of  them  have 
found  very  pretty  lodgings  in  this  country  with  Bode  and  Waser. 
Thereaftei',  in  the  same  chapter  on  Romances,  she  makes  Asmus, 
who  has  written  no  romance,  the  drawbridge  for  a  sally  against  Jean 
Paul. 

Her  shallow  sentence,  as  one  more  passed  on  him,  may,  among  so 
many,  —  some  friendlier,  some  more  hostile,  —  pass  on  with  the  rest ; 
till  the  right  one  appear,  which  shall  exaggerate  neither  praise  nor 
blame  ;  for  hitherto,  as  well  the  various  pricking-girdles  (cilices)  in 
which  he  was  to  do  penance,  have  been  so  wide  for  his  body  that 
they  slipped  to  his  feet,  as  in  like  wise  the  laurel-wreaths  so  large  for 
his  head  that  they  fell  upon  his  shoulders.  Our  Authoress  dexter- 
ously unites  both ;  and  every  period  consists,  in  front,  of  a  pleasant 
commendation,  and  behind  of  a  fatal  metis ;  and  the  left  hand  of  the 
conclusion  never  knows  what  the  right  hand  of  the  premises  doeth. 
Reviewer  can  figure  this  jester  comically  enough,  when  he  thinks 
how  his  face  must,  above  fifteen  times,  have  cheerfully  thawed  at  the 
first  clauses,  and  then  suddenly  frozen  again  at  the  latter.  Those 
mais  are  his  bitterest  enemies.  Our  Authoress  blames  him  for  over- 
doing the  pathetic  ;  which  blame  she  herself  unduly  shares  with  him 
in  her  Corinne,  as  Reviewer,  in  his  long-past  critique  thereof,  in  these 
very  Jahrbiicher,  hopes  to  have  proved ;  and,  it  may  be,  had  that 
review  of  Corinne  met  her  eye,  she  would  rather  have  left  various 
things  against  J.  P.  unsaid.  In  p.  79,  she  writes,  that  he  knows  the 
human  heart  only  from  little  German  towns,  and  (hence)  '//  y  a 
souvent  dans  fa  peinture  de  ces  mecurs  quelque  chose  de  trop  innocent 
pour  noire  siecle.'  Now,  it  is  a  question  whether  J.  P.  could  not,  if 
not  altogether  disprove,  yet  uncommonly  weaken,  this  charge  of 
innocence,  —  by  stating  that  many  of  his  works  were  written  in 
Leipzig,  Weimar,  Berlin,  &c. ;  and  that,  consequently,  his  alleged 
innocence  was  not  his  blame,  but  that  of  those  cities.  He  might  also 
set  forth  how,  in  Titan,  he  has  collected  so  much  polished  court- 
corruption,  recklessness,  and  refined  sin  of  all  sorts,  that  it  is  a 
hardship  for  him,  —  saying  nothing  of  those  capital  cities, —  to  be 
implicated  in  any  such  guilt  as  that  of  innocence. 

However,  to  excuse  her  half  and  quarter  judgment,  let  it  not  be 
concealed  that  scarcely  have  two  of  his  works  (Hesperus  and  Sieben- 

cated  all  hearts  with  tears.   But  what  always  obstructs  a  heroine  with  the  female 
reading  world,  is  the  circumstance  that  she  is  not  the  hero, 
i  Tom.  iv.  p.  79. 


RICHTER  AND  DE  STAEL. 


479 


lefts)  been  gone  through  by  her ;  nay  one  of  them,  Hesperus,  has  not 
so  much  as  been  fairly  gone  into ;  for,  after  introducing  a  not  very 
important  scene  from  Hesperus,  the  couching  of  a  father's  eyes  by  a 
son,  properly  a  thing  which  every  century  does  to  the  other,  she 
tables  some  shreds  of  a  second  incident  in  this  same  Hesperus,  but 
with  a  statement  that  it  is  from  a  different  romance.  Of  the  Rede  des 
todten  Christus  (Speech  of  the  dead  Christ),  she  has  indeed  omitted 
the  superfluous  commencement,  but  also  more  than  half  of  the  un- 
superfluous  conclusion,  which  closes  those  wounds.  Reviewer  will- 
ingly excuses  her,  since  this  author,  a  comet  of  moderate  nucleus, 
carries  so  excessive  a  comet-train  of  volumes  along  with  him,  that 
even  up  to  the  minute  when  he  writes  this,  such  train  has  not  yet 
got  altogether  above  the  horizon. 

On  the  whole,  she  usually  passes  long  judgments  only  on  few- 
vohnned  writers, — for  instance,  Tieck,  Werner;  and  short  on  many- 
volumed,  —  for  instance,  the  rich  Herder,  whom  she  accommodates 
in  a  pretty  bowerlet  of  four  sides,  or  pages.  The  New  Poetic  School, 
at  least  August  Schlegel,  whom  she  saw  act  in  Werner's  Twenty -fourth 
of  February,  might  have  helped  her  out  a  little  with  instructions  and 
opinions  about  Herder  (nay,  even  about  Jean  Paul)  as  well  as  about 
Tieck;  the  more,  as  she  seems  so  open  to  such  communications  that 
they  often  come  back  from  her  as  mere  echoes  :  for,  strictly  consid- 
ered, it  is  the  New,  much  more  than  the  Old  School,  that  really 
stands  in  opposition  to  the  French. 

The  thirty-second  chapter  (des  Beaux  Arts  en  Allemayne)  does  not 
require  seventeen  pages,  as  Faust  did,  to  receive  sentence ;  but  only 
seven,  to  describe  German  painting,  statuary  and  music,  —  not  so 
much  compressedly  as  compressingly.  Nevertheless,  Reviewer  will- 
ingly gives  up  even  these  seven  pages  for  the  sake  of  the  following 
beautiful  remark  : 1 

'  La  musique  des  Allemands  est  plus  varide  que  celle  des  Italiens,  et 
e'est  en  cela  peut-etre  qu'elle  est  moins  bonne:  l'esprit  est  condamn^  a  la 
vari^te, —  e'est  sa  misere  qui  en  est  la  cause;  mais  les  arts,  comme  le 
.sentiment,  ont  une  admirable  monotonie,  celle  dont  on  voudi-ait  faire  un 
moment  eternel.' 

The  Fifth  Volume  treats  of  Philosophies  —  the  French,  the  Eng- 
lish, the  old  and  new  and  newest  German,  and  what  else  from  an- 
cient Greece  has  to  do  with  philosophies.  Concerning  this  volume,  a 
German  reviewer  can  offer  his  German  readers  nothing  new,  except 
perhaps  whimsicalities.  While  men, — for  example,  Jacobi,  —  after 
long  studying  and  re-studying  of  great  philosophers,  so  often  tall  into 
anxiety  lest  they  may  not  have  understood  them,  finding  the  con- 
i  Tom.  iv.  p.  125. 


480 


APPENDIX. 


futation  look  so  easy,  women  of  talent  and  breeding,  simply  from 
their  gift  of  saying  No,  infer  at  once  that  they  have  seen  through 
them.  Reviewer  is  acquainted  with  intellectual  ladies,  who,  in  the 
hardest  philosophical  works,  —  for  instance,  Fiehte's, —  have  found 
nothing  but  light  and  ease.  Not  what  is  thought,  only  what  is 
learned,  can  women  fancy  as  beyond  their  horizon.  From  Love 
they  have  acquired  a  boldness,  foreign  to  us,  of  passing  sentence  on 
great  men.  Besides,  they  can  always,  instead  of  the  conception,  the 
idea,  substitute  a  feeling.  In  p.  78,  Madame  de  Stael  says  quite 
naively,  she  does  not  see  why  philosophers  have  striven  so  much  to 
reduce  all  things  to  one  principle,  be  it  matter  or  spirit;  one  or  a 
pair,  it  makes  little  difference,  and  explains  the  all  no  better.  In 
p.  55,  she  imparts  to  the  Parisians  several  categories  of  Kant's,  with 
an  et-ccetera  ;  as  it  were  an  Alphabet,  with  an  and-so-forth.  If  jesting 
is  admissible  in  a  review,  the  following  passage  on  Schelling1  may 
properly  stand  here  : 

'  L'id^al  et  le  r^el  tiennent,  clans  son  langage,  la  place  de  l'intelligence 
et  de  la  matiere,  de  l'imagination  et  de  l'experience;  et  e'est  dans  la 
reunion  de  ces  deux  puissances  en  une  harmonie  complete,  que  consiste, 
seloti  lui,  le  principe  unique  et  absolu  de  l'univers  organist.  Cette  har- 
monie, dont  les  deux  poles  et  le  centre  sont  l'imnge,  et  qui  est  renferme' 
dans  le  nombre  de  trois,  de  tout  temps  si  mysteVieux,  fournit  a  Schelling 
des  applications  les  plus  ingenieuses.'1 

But  we  return  to  earnest.  Consider,  now,  what  degree  of  spirit 
these  three  philosophic  spirits  can  be  expected  to  retain,  when  they 
have  been  passed  off,  and  in,  and  carried  through,  three  heads,  as  if 
by  distillation  ascending,  distillation  middle  and  distillation  descend- 
ing :  for  the  three  heads  are,  namely, — the  head  of  the  Authoress, 
who  does  not  half  understand  the  philosophers  ;  the  head  of  the 
Parisian,  who  again  half  understands  our  Authoress  ;  and  finally,  the 
head  of  the  Parisianess,  who  again  half  understands  the  Parisian. 
Through  such  a  series  of  intermediate  glasses  the  light  in  the  last 
may  readily  refract  itself  into  darkness. 

Meanwhile,  let  the  former  praise  remain  to  her  unimpaired,  that 
she  still  seizes  in  our  philosophy  the  sunny  side,  which  holds  of  the 
heart,  to  exhibit  and  illuminate  the  mossy  north  side  of  the  French 
philosophy.  Striking  expressions  of  noblest  sentiments  and  views 
are  uncovered,  like  pearl-muscles,  in  this  philosophic  ebb  and  flow. 
Precious  also,  in  itself,  is  the  nineteenth  chapter,  on  Marriage  Love ; 
though  for  this  topic,  foreign  in  philosophj',  it  were  hard  to  find  any 
right  conductor  into  such  a  discussion,  except,  indeed,  the  philos- 
ophers Crates  and  Socrates  furnish  one. 

i  Tom.  v.  p.  83. 


RICHTER  AND  DE  STAEL. 


481 


As  the  Sixth  and  last  Volume  treats  of  Religion  and  Enthusiasm, 
—  a  French  juxtaposition,  —  it  is  almost  her  heart  alone  that  speaks, 
and  the  language  of  this  is  always  a  pure  and  rich  one.  The  sepa- 
rate pearls,  from  the  philosophic  ebb,  here  collect  themselves  into  a 
pearl  necklace.  She  speaks  nobly  on  Nature,  and  Man,  and  Eter- 
nity;1 so  likewise  on  Enthusiasm.2  Individual  baldnesses  it  were 
easy  for  Reviewer  to  extract,  —  for  they  are  short;  but  individual 
splendours  difficult,  —  for  they  are  too  long. 

To  one  who  loves  not  only  Germany  but  mankind,  or  rather  both 
in  each  other,  her  praise  and  high  preference  of  the  German  religious 
temper,  in  this  volume,  almost  grows  to  pain  :  for,  as  we  Germans 
ourselves  complain  of  our  coldness,  she  could  have  found  a  tem- 
perate climate  here  only  by  contrast  with  the  French  ice-field  of 
irreligion  from  which  she  comes.  Truly,  she  is  in  the  right.  The 
French,  in  these  very  days,  have  accepted  their  Sunday  as  crabbedly 
as  the  Germans  parted  with  their  Second  Sundays,  or  Holidays, 
when  forced  to  do  it.  Thus  does  the  poisonous  meadow-saffron  of 
the  Revolution,  after  its  autumn-flowers  have  been  left  solitary  and 
withered,  still  keep  under  ground  its  narcotic  bulb  for  the  awakened 
spring  ;  almost  as  if  the  spirit  of  Freedom  in  this  Revolution,  like 
the  spirit  of  Christianity,  should  construct  and  remodel  every  for- 
eign people  —  only  not  the  Jewish,  where  were  the  Nativity  and 
Crucifixion. 

The  bitterness  of  the  Parisian  journal-corps,  who  have  charged 
against  this  Work  of  the  Baroness  more  fiercely  than  against  all  her 
Romances,  shows  us  that  it  is  something  else  than  difference  of  taste 
that  they  strike  and  fire  at :  their  hearts  have  been  doubly  provoked 
by  this  comparison,  and  trebly  by  this  discordance  in  their  own  most 
inward  feeling,  which  loves  not  to  expose  itself  as  an  outward  one. 
In  romances,  they  took  all  manner  of  religion  as  it  came ;  they  could 
charge  it  on  the  characters,  and  absolve  the  poetess :  but  here  she 
herself,  —  not  with  foreign  lips,  but  with  her  own,  —  has  spoken 
out  for  religion,  and  against  the  country  where  religion  is  yet  no 
remigrce. 

A  special  Pamphlet,  published  in  Paris,  on  this  Work,  enlists  the 
method  of  question  and  answer  in  the  service  of  delusion,  to  exhibit 
bold  beauties,  by  distorting  them  from  their  accompaniments,  in  the 
character  of  bombast.  It  is  but  seldom  that  our  Authoress  sins,  and, 
in  German  fashion,  against  German  taste,  as  where  she  says,3 

1  Tous  les  moutons  du  me  me  troupeau  vienuent  donner,  les  uns  apres 
les  autres,  leurs  coups-de-tete  aux  id^es,  qui  n'en  restent  moiiis  ce  qu'elles 
sont.'  : 


i  Tom.  vi.  pp.  78-86.  2  Chap.  x.  3  Tom.  vi.  p.  11. 

vol.  n.  31 


482 


APPENDIX. 


In  presence  of  a  descriptive  power  that  delights  foreign  nations, 
one  might  hope  the  existing  French  would  modestly  sink  mute  — 
they  whose  eulogistic  manner,  in  the  Moniteur,  in  the  senate  and 
everywhere,  towards  the  throne,  has  at  all  times  been  as  strained, 
windy  and  faded  as  its  object;  and  in  whom,  as  in  men  dying  the 
wrong  way  (while,  in  common  cases,  in  the  cooling  of  the  outward 
limbs,  the  heart  continues  to  give  heat),  nothing  remains  warm  but 
the  members  from  which  the  frozen  heart  lies  farthest. 

It  is  difficult,  amid  so  many  bright  passages,  which,  like  polished 
gold,  not  only  glitter,  but  image  and  exhibit,  to  select  the  best.  Foi 
example,  the  description  of  the  Alps  by  night,  and  of  the  whole  fes- 
tival of  Interlaken  ; 1  —  the  remark  2  that  both  the  excess  of  heat  in 
the  east,  and  of  cold  in  the  north,  incline  the  mind  to  idealism  and 
visuality  ;  —  or  this,  '  Ce  qui  manque  en  France,  en  tout  (jenre,  c'est  le 
'  sentiment  et  I' habitude  du  respect' 3 

Still  more  than  we  admire  the  Work,  is  the  Authoress,  considering 
also  her  sex  and  her  nation,  to  be  admired.  Probably  she  is  the  only 
woman  in  Europe,  and  still  more  probably  the  only  French  person  in 
France,  that  could  have  written  such  a  book  on  Germany.  Had 
Germany  been  her  cradle  and  school,  she  might  have  written  a  still 
better  work,  namely,  on  France.  And  so  we  shall  wish  this  spiritual 
Amazon  strength  and  heart  for  new  campaigns  and  victories ;  and 
then,  should  she  again  prove  the  revieweress  of  a  reviewer,  let  no 
one  undertake  that  matrimonial  relation  but  Frip.4 

1  Tom.  i.  ch.  xx.  2  Tom.  v.  p.  87. 

3  Tom.  v.  p.  27.    So  likewise,  torn.  v.  pp.  11,  97,  109.  125.  207. 
*  Frip  is  the  anagram  of  J.  P.  F.  R.,  and  his  common  signature  in  such  cases 
-T. 


SUMMARY  OF  CONTENTS. 


VOLTAIRE. 

Resistless  and  boundless  power  of  true  Litei-ature.  Every  Life  a 
well-spring,  whose  stream  flows  onward  to  Eternity.  Present  aspect  of  a 
man  often  strangely  contrasted  with  his  future  influence;  Moses;  Ma- 
homet; the  early  Christians;  Tamerlane  and  Faust  of  Mentz.  How  noise- 
less is  Thought!  (p.  5).  —  Voltaire's  European  reputation.  The  biography 
of  such  a  man  cannot  be  unimportant.  Differences  of  opinion:  Necessity 
for  mutual  tolerance.  Voltaire's  character:  Adroitness,  and  multifarious 
success:  Keen  sense  of  rectitude;  and  fellow-feeling  for  human  suffering. 
(9). —  Not  a  'great  character;'  essentially  a  Mocker.  Ridicule  not  the 
test  of  truth.  The  glory  of  knowing  and  believing,  all  but  a  stranger  to 
him;  only  with  that  of  questioning  and  qualifying  is  he  familiar.  His 
tragicomical  explosions,  more  like  a  bundle  of  rockets  than  a  volcano. 
Character  of  the  age  into  which  he  was  cast.  What  is  implied  by  a  Lover 
of  Wisdom.  Voltaire  loved  Truth,  but  chiefly  of  the  triumphant  sort. 
His  love  of  fame:  'Necessity'  of  lying:  Can  either  fly  or  crawl,  as  the 
occasion  demands.  (20).  —  His  view  of  the  world  a  cool,  gently  scornful, 
altogether  prosaic  one.  His  last  ill-omened  visit  to  Frederick  the  Great. 
His  women,  an  embittered  and  embittering  set  of  wantons  from  the  earliest 
to  the  last:  Widow  Denis;  the  Marquise  du  Chatelet.  The  greatest  of  all 
Persifleurs.  (35).  —  His  last  and  most  striking  appearance  in  society:  The 
loudest  and  showiest  homage  ever  paid  to  Literature.  The  last  scene  of 
all.  (45).  —  Intellectual  gifts:  His  power  of  rapid,  perspicuous  Arrange- 
ment: His  Wit,  a  mere  logical  pleasantry;  scarcely  a  twinkling  of  Humour 
in  the  whole  of  his  numberless  sallies.  Poetry  of  the  toilette :  Criticisms 
of  Shakspeare, —  Voltaire,  and  Frederick  the  Great:  Let  justice  be  shown 
even  to  French  poetry.  (531. —  Voltaire  chiefly  conspicuous  as  a  vehement 
opponent  of  the  Christian  Faith:  Shallowness  of  his  deepest  insight:  The 
Worship  of  Sorrow,  godlike  Doctrine  of  Humility,  all  unknown  to  him. 
The  Christian  Religion  itself  can  never  die.  Voltaire's  whole  character 
plain  enough:  A  light,  careless,  courteous  Man  of  the  World:  His  chief 
merits  belong  to  Nature  and  himself;  his  chief  faults  are  of  his  time  and 
country.    The  strange  ungodly  Age  of  Louis  XV.:  Honour;  Enlightened 


484 


SUMMARY  OF  CONTENTS. 


Self-interest;  Force  of  Public  Opinion.  Novalis,  on  the  worthlessness 
and  worth  of  French  Philosophy.  The  death-stab  of  modern  Super- 
stition. The  burning  of  a  little  straw  may  hide  the  Stars;  but  they  are 
still  there,  and  will  again  be  seen.  (65). 


NOVALIS. 

No  good  Book,  or  good  thing  of  any  sort,  shows  its  best  face  at  first: 
Improvisators,  and  their  literary  soap-bubbles.  Men  of  genius:  The  wise 
man's  errors  more  instructive  than  the  truisms  of  a  fool.  What  is  called 
'reviewing;'  showing  how  a  small  Reviewer  may  triumph  over  a  great 
Author,  and  what  his  triumph  is  worth.  The  writings  of  Novalis  of  too 
much  importance  to  be  lightly  passed  by.  (p.  79).  —  Novalis's  birth  and 
parentage:  Religious  and  secluded  Childhood:  Schooling.  Applies  him- 
self honestly  to  business.  Death  of  his  first  love:  Communings  with 
Eternity.  Influence  on  his  character  of  this  wreck  of  his  first  passionate 
wish:  Doctrine  of  '  Renunciation.'  Peace  and  cheerfulness  of  his  life: 
Interest  in  the  physical  sciences.  Acquaintance  and  literary  cooperation 
with  Schlegel  and  Tieck.  Alarming  illness:  Hopeful  literary  projects : 
Gradual  bodily  decline,  and  peaceful  death.  Manners,  and  personal 
aspect.  (87). —  Wonderful  depth  and  originality  of  his  writings:  His 
philosophic  mysticism.  Idealism  not  confined  to  Germany.  The  Kantean 
view  of  the  material  Universe:  Its  intellectual  and  moral  bearing  on  the 
practical  interests  of  men.  Influence  on  the  deep,  religious  spirit  of 
Novalis:  Nature  no  longer  dead,  hostile  Matter;  but  the  veil  and  mys- 
terious Garment  of  the  Unseen:  The  Beauty  of  Goodness,  the  only  real, 
final  possession.  (99). — Extracts  from  the  Lehrlinge  zu  Sais,  ijr.  ;  Mani- 
fold significance  of  all  natural  phenomena  to  the  true  observer;  Beauty 
and  omnipotence  of  childlike  intuition;  How  the  chastened  understanding 
may  be  brought  into  harmony  with  the  deepest  intuitions,  and  the  most 
rigid  facts:  Nature,  as  viewed  by  the  superstitious  fanatic,  the  utilitarian 
inquirer,  the  sceptical  idealist,  and  the  regenerate  Soul  of  man:  The 
mechanics  and  dynamics  of  Thought;  Eclectic  Philosophers:  Philosophic 
Fragments.  (108).  —  Novalis  as  a  Poet:  Extracts  from  Hymns  to  the  Night, 
and  Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen.  His  writings  an  unfathoined  mine,  where 
the  keenest  intellect  may  find  occupation  enough:  His  power  of  intense 
abstraction:  His  chief  fault  a  certain  undue  passiveness.  Likeness  to 
Dante  and  Pascal.  Intelligent,  well-informed  minds  should  endeavour  to 
understand  even  Mysticism.  Mechanical  Superciliousness  versus  living 
Belief  in  God;  the  victory  not  doubtful.  (122). 


SIGNS  OF  THE  TIMES. 


Our  grand  business,  not  to  see  what  lies  dimly  in  the  distance;  but  to 
do  what  lies  clearly  at  hand:  Prophetic  folly,  and  spiritual  contagion. 


SUMMARY  OF  CONTENTS. 


485 


The  Present  always  an  important  time.  The  Age  of  Machinery,  in  every 
outward  and  inward  sense:  Cases  in  point,  —  from  hatching  Chickens, 
to  developing  the  young  Idea;  from  1  Interrogating  Nature,'  up  to  deliver- 
ing one's  soul  from  Purgatory,  (p.  135). — No  Philosophy  of  Mind  to  be 
found  out  of  Germany.  Mathematics  all  gone  to  mechanism.  Locke's 
Essay,  a  singular  emblem  of  the  spirit  of  the  times:  Scotch  and  French 
mental-mechanism.  The  Machine  of  Society:  Social  mechanism  more 
prized  than  individual  worth.  All  wise  inventions  or  discoveries,  all 
great  movements  whatsoever  spring  inevitably  from  the  individual  souls 
of  men.  Mechanical  and  Dynamical  provinces  of  human  activity:  Men 
have  lost  their  belief  in  the  Invisible:  and  believe,  and  hope,  and  work 
only  in  the  Visible.  Intellectual  dapperlings,  and  their  '  closet-logic ' 
rushlights:  One  wise  man  stronger  than  all  men  foolish.  (142).  —  Religion 
no  longer  a  thousand-voiced  Psalm,  from  the  heart  of  Man  to  his  invisible 
Father;  but  a  wise,  prudential  feeling,  grounded  on  mere  calculation. 
The  working  Church  of  England  at  this  moment  in  the  Editors  of  News- 
papers. Even  Poetry  has  no  eye  for  the  Invisible:  Not  a  matin  or  vesper 
hymn  to  the  Spirit  of  Beauty;  but  a  fierce  clashing  of  cymbals,  as  chil- 
dren pass  through  the  fire  to  Moloch.  Our  '  superior  morality '  properly 
an  '  inferior  criminality: '  Truth  and  Virtue  no  longer  loved,  as  thejr  ought 
and  must  be  loved:  Beyond  money  and  money's  worth,  our  only  blessed- 
ness is  Popularity.  (155). —  Bright  lights,  as  well  as  gloomy  shadows. 
The  wisdom  and  heroic  worth  of  our  forefathers  we  may  yet  recover. 
The  darkest  hour  is  nearest  the  dawn.  (159).  ' 


JEAN  PAUL  FRIEDRICH  RICHTER  AGAIN. 

The  best  celebrity  does  not  always  spread  the  fastest.  Richter's  slow, 
but  sure  reception  in  England.  His  life,  like  most  literary  lives,  some- 
what barren  of  outward  incidents;  yet  containing  a  deeper  worth  than 
any  such  interest  could  impart.  Difficulty  and  value  of  real  Biography. 
Insufficiency  of  Otto's  Life  of  Richter.  (p.  162).  —  Richter's  birth,  parent- 
age and  pedigree:  His  Father,  a  poor,  hard-working  Clergyman,  loved  and 
venerated  by  his  flock.  Not  by  money,  or  money's  worth,  that  Man  lives 
and  has  his  being:  To  a  rich  spirit,  Life  cannot  be  poor.  Young  Paul's 
Idyl-Kingdom  and  little  Pastoral  World,  sketched  by  himself:  0  God!  I 
thank  thee  for  my  Father!  (170).  —  Eai-ly  education:  Latin  vocables; 
dreary  reading;  child-glimpses  into  the  infinity  of  Nature,  and  his  own 
Soul.  In  his  thirteenth  year  the  family  removed  to  a  better  church-living 
at  Schwarzenbach.  He  now  got  access  to  books,  and  better  teaching. 
Early  theological  speculations,  '  inclining  strongly  to  the  heterodox  side.' 
Loses  his  Father:  Pecuniary  troubles.  Aversion  for  History  and  Geog- 
raphy. A  school-disputation:  Paul  triumphant  over  Orthodoxy  and 
dull  Authority:  'Silence,  Sirrah!'  (176). —  At  Leipzig  University:  Ob- 
tains little  furtherance  from  established  teachers ;  and  endeavours  to  work 
out  an  intellectual  basis  of  his  own.    Poverty,  not  in  the  shape  of  Parsi- 


486 


SUMMARY  OF  CONTENTS. 


mony,  but  in  the  far  sterner  one  of  actual  Want.  His  Mother,  quite  un- 
able to  help  herself,  could  afford  him  no  assistance.  A  high,  cheerful 
Stoicism  grew  up  in  him:  Wise  maxims  for  so  young  a  man.  His  first 
productions:  No  demand  for  them.  Magazine  writing.  He  lived,  like  the 
young  ravens,  how  he  could :  He  had  looked  Desperation  in  the  face,  and 
found  that  for  him  she  was  not  desperate.  Blessings  of  early  poverty. 
(180).  —  Richter's  gallant  self-dependence :  His  free  and  easy  style  of  dress : 
Horror  of  his  more  courtly  neighbours:  Seven-years'  costume  contro- 
versy; and  final  magnanimous  compliance  with  the  wishes  of  all  Chris- 
tian persons.  (189).  —  His  singular  literary  establishment  at  Hof.  Of  all 
literary  phenomena,  that  of  a  literary  man  daring  to  believe  that  he  is 
poor,  may.be  regarded  as  the  rarest.  No  'Men  of  Letters'  now;  only 
'  Literary  Gentlemen,'  and  a  degree  of  rickety  Debility  unexampled  in  the 
history  of  Literature.  Richter  survives  his  exclusion  from  the  little 
'  West-end '  of  Hof.  His  sudden  and  decisive  triumph,  after  a  valiant 
struggle  of  ten  years.  His  poor  Mother  is  released  from  her  troubles: 
The  Hof  household  broken  up.  His  reception  by  the  high  and  titled  of 
his  country:  His  marriage.  (194). —  Removes  to  Weimar:  Illustrious  com- 
panionship :  Literary  activity.  Receives  a  pension  from  the  Prince  Prim- 
ate Dalberg:  Settles  in  Baireuth:  Public  honour,  and  domestic  happiness : 
Unwearied  diligence  in  his  vocation.  Loss  of  his  only  son:  Sickness,  and 
almost  total  blindness:  Death.  (204).  — Richter's  intellectual  and  literary 
character.  Extracts;  Miniature  sketches  of  Herder,  Jacobi,  Goethe, 
Luther,  Klopstock,  Schiller;  A  fair-weather  scene;  A  bridegroom  and 
bride;  On  Daughter-full  Houses.  Richter's  vastness  of  Imagination: 
Rapt,  deep,  Old-Hebrew  spirit  of  his  Dreams:  His  Dream  of  Atheism. 
A  true  Poet,  and  among  the  highest  of  his  time,  though  he  wrote  no 
verses.  (208). 


ON  HISTORY. 

History,  man's  earliest  and  simplest  expression  of  Thought:  As  we  do 
nothing  but  enact  History,  so  likewise  we  say  little  but  recite  it.  Ancient 
and  modern  historians.  Vanity  of  all  would-be  '  Philosophies  of  His- 
tory: '  Before  Philosophy  can  teach  by  Experience,  Philosophy  must  first 
know  how  to  do  it;  and  above  all,  have  the  Experience  intelligibly  re- 
corded. Infinite  complexity  of  the  simplest  facts  constituting  the  Ex- 
perience of  Life.  The  living,  actual  History  of  Humanity  consists  of  far 
other  and  more  fruitful  activities  than  those  recorded  in  history-books, 
(p.  228).  —  Worth  and  worthlessness  of  historic  testimonies;  the  Seer,  and 
mere  Onlookers.  Inevitable  discrepancy  between  a  mere  linear  Narrative 
of  'successive  events;'  and  the  actual,  infinitely-related  Aggregate  of 
Activities,  the  daily  record  of  which  could  alone  constitute  a  complete 
History.  Better  were  it  that  mere  earthly  historians  should  lower  their 
pretensions  to  Philosophy;  and  aim  only  at  some  faithful  picture  of  the 
things  acted.  (232). —  The  historical  Artist,  and  the  historical  Artisan. 


SUMMARY  OF  CONTENTS. 


487 


Growing  feeling  of  the  infinite  nature  of  History.  Division  of  labour: 
The  Political  and  the  Ecclesiastic  historian:  Church  History,  could  it 
speak  wisely,  would  have  momentous  secrets  to  teach.  Histories  of  a  less 
ambitious  character.  Old  healthy  identity  of  Priest  and  Philosopher. 
Historic  Ideals:  Necessity  for  honest  insight.  (235). 


LUTHER'S  PSALM. 
The  great  Reformer's  love  of  music  and  poetry,  one  of  the  most  signifi- 
cant features  in  his  character.  His  poetic  feeling  not  so  much  expressed 
in  fit  Words,  as  in  fit  Actions.  And  yet  it  is  the  same  Luther,  whether 
acting,  speaking  or  writing.  His  Psalm,  Elne  feste  Burg  ist  unset-  Gott. 
(p.  241). 

SCHILLER. 

Correspondence  between  Schiller  and  Goethe.  Natural  curiosity  re- 
specting great  men:  Value  of  the  scantiest  memorials  that  will  help  to 
make  them  intelligible.  It  can  be  no  true  greatness,  that  a  close  inspec- 
tion would  abate  a  worthy  admiration  of.  The  Letters  of  Schiller  and 
Goethe :  Their  entire  sincerity  of  style :  Turn  mostly  on  compositions,  pub- 
lications, philosophies.  An  instructive  record  of  the  rhental  progress  of 
their  respective  writers,  (p.  245).  —  Schiller's  mode  of  thought  and  utter- 
ance more  European  than  national:  His  ready  and  general  acceptance 
with  foreigners.  High  struggle,  and  prophetic  burden  of  every  true  Poet. 
Schiller's  personal  history.  His  life  emphatically  a  literary  one:  Some- 
thing Priestlike,  almost  monastic  in  its  character.  His  parentage  and 
youth:  Schooling:  Hardships  and  oppi-essions  from  the  Duke  of  Wiirtem- 
berg:  Not  in  Law,  or  Medicine;  nor  in  any  marketable  occupation,  can 
his  soul  find  content  and  a  home.  His  restless  struggling  to  get  free. 
Publication  of  the  Robbers.  Escape  from  the  harsh  tyranny  of  the  Duke. 
Henceforth  a  Literary  Man;  and  need  appear  in  no  other  character.  (251). 
—  His  mild,  honest  character  everywhere  gains  him  friends.  His  connex- 
ion with  Goethe  the  most  important  event  of  his  literary  life:  Their 
mutual  esteem,  and  zealous  cooperation.  Schiller's  quiet,  unconquered 
heroism  through  fifteen  years  of  unremitted  pain.  The  foolish  Happi- 
ness-controversy: The  whole  argument,  like  every  other,  lies  in  the  con- 
fusion of  language:  True  Welfare,  and  mere  sensuous  Enjoyment:  Mind 
versus  Matter.  (265).  —  Schiller's  character  as  a  man.  In  his  life  the 
social  affections  played  no  deeply  absorbing  part:  It  was  toward  the 
Ideal,  not  the  Actual,  that  his  faith  and  hope  wei-e  chiefly  directed:  His 
habits  were  solitary;  his  chief  business  and  pleasure  lay  in  silent  medita- 
tion. Some  account  of  his  ordinary  mode  of  life.  He  mingles  little  in  the 
controversies  of  his  time:  and  alludes  to  them  only  from  afar.  His  high 
conception  of  the  mission  of  the  true  Poet.  His  genius  reflective  rather 
than  creative;  philosophical  and  oratorical  rather  than  essentially  poetic. 


488 


SUMMARY  OF  CONTENTS. 


For  the  most  part,  the  Common  is  to  him  still  the  Common.  Closely  con- 
nected with  this  imperfection,  both  as  cause  and  consequence,  is  his  sin- 
gular want  of  Humour.  Yet  there  is  a  tone  in  some  of  his  later  pieces, 
breathing  of  the  very  highest  region  of  Art.  (273).  —  Schiller's  dramatic 
success.  Illustrations  of  his  mental  progress;  turbid  ferocities  of  the 
Robbers,  contrasted  with  the  placidly  victorious  strength  of  his  maturer 
works.  The  like  progress  visible  in  his  smaller  Poems:  His  Alpenlied. 
Schiller's  Philosophic  talent:  Interest  in  Kant's  System.  His  ^Esthetic 
Letters.    Schiller  and  Goethe.  (283). 


THE  NIBELUNGEN  LIED. 
About  the  year  1757,  a  certain  antiquarian  tendency  in  literature,  a 
fonder,  more  earnest  looking  back  into  the  Past,  began  to  manifest  itself 
in  all  nations.  Growth  and  fruit  of  this  tendency  in  Germany.  The  Nibe- 
lungen, a  kind  of  rude  German  Epos:  It  belongs  specially  to  us  English 
Teutones,  as  well  as  to  the  German.  Northern  Archaeology,  a  chaos  of 
immeasurable  shadows:  The  Heldenbuch,  the  most  important  of  these  sub- 
sidiary Fictions;  and  throwing  some  little  light  on  the  Nibelungen :  Out- 
line of  the  Story.  Early  adventures  of  the  brave  Siegfried,  whose  history 
lies  at  the  heart  of  the  whole  Northern  Traditions:  His  Invulnerability, 
wonderful  Sword  Balmung,  and  Cloak  of  Darkness:  His  subsequent  his- 
tory belongs  to  the  Song  of  the  Nibelungen.  (p.  2961.  —  Singular  poetic  ex- 
cellence of  that  old  Epic  Song:  Simplicity,  and  clear  decisive  ring  of  its 
language:  Deeds  of  high  temper,  harsh  self-denial,  daring  and  death,  stand 
embodied  in  soft,  quick-flowing,  joyfully-modulated  verse :  Wonderful  skill 
in  the  construction  of  the  story;  and  the  healthy  subordination  of  the  mar- 
vellous to  the  actual.  Abstract  of  the  Poem,  —  How  Siegfried  wooed  and 
won  the  beautiful  Chriemhild;  and  how  marvellously  he  vanquished  the 
Amazonian  Brunhild  for  king  Gunther:  Heyday  of  peace  and  gladdest 
sunshine.  Jealousy  of  queen  Brunhild:  How  the  two  queens  rated  one 
another;  and  how  Chriemhild  extinguished  Brunhild.  Brunhild  in  black 
revenge  gets  Siegfried  murdered:  Unhappy  Chriemhild,  her  husband's 
grave  is  all  that  remains  to  her:  Her  terrible  doomsday  vengeance.  (314). 
—  Antiquarian  researches  into  the  origin  of  the  Nibelungen  Lied:  Histori- 
cal coincidences.  The  oldest  Tradition,  and  the  oldest  Poem  of  Modern 
Europe.  Who  the  gifted  Singer  may  have  been,  remains  altogether  dark: 
The  whole  spirit  of  Chivalry,  of  Love  and  heroic  Valour,  must  have  lived 
in  him  and  inspired  him:  A  true  old  Singer,  taught  of  Nature  herself  ! 
(345). 

GERMAN  LITERATURE  OF  THE  FOURTEENTH  AND 
FIFTEENTH  CENTURIES. 
Historical  literary  significance  of  Reynard  the  Fox.    The  Troubadour 
Period  in  general  Literature,  to  which  the  Swabian  Era  in  Germany  an- 


SUMMARY  OF  CONTENTS. 


swers.  General  decay  of  Poetry:  Futile  attempts  to  account  for  such 
decay:  The  world  seems  td  have  rhymed  itself  out;  and  stern  business,  not 
sportfully,  but  with  harsh  endeavour,  was  now  to  be  done.  Italy,  for  a 
time,  a  splendid  exception  in  Dante  and  Petrarch.  The  change  not  a  fall 
from  a  higher  spiritual  state  to  a  lower;  but  rather,  a  passing  from  youth 
into  manhood,  (p.  355).  —  Literature  now  became  more  and  more  Didactic, 
consisting  of  wise  Apologues,  Fables,  Satires,  Moralities:  This  Didactic 
Spirit  reached  its  acme  at  the  era  of  the  Reformation.  Its  gradual  rise : 
The  Striker,  and  others.  Some  account  of  Hugo  von  Trimberg:  A  cheer- 
ful, clear-sighted,  gentle-hearted  man,  with  a  quiet,  sly  humour  in  him: 
His  Rentier,  a  singular  old  book;  his  own  simple,  honest,  mildly  decided 
character  everywhere  visible  in  it.  (364).  —  Boner,  and  his  Edelstein,  a 
collection  of  Fables  done  into  German  rhyme  from  Latin  originals :  Not  so 
much  a  Translator  as  a  free  Imitator;  he  tells  his  story  in  his  own  way, 
and  freely  appends  his  own  moral.  Fable,  the  earliest  and  simplest  prod- 
uct of  Didactic  Poetry:  The  Fourteenth  Century  an  age  of  Fable  in  a 
wider  sense:  Narratives  and  Mysteries.  A  serious  warning  to  Critics !  Ad- 
ventures of  Tyll  F.ulenspiegel.  (376).  —  In  the  religious  Cloisters,  also  were 
not  wanting  men  striving  with  purer  enthusiasm  after  the  highest  problem 
of  manhood,  a  life  of  spiritual  Truth :  Johann  Tauler,  and  Thomas  a  Kem- 
pis.  On  all  hands  an  aspect  of  full  progress:  Robber  Barons,  and  Mer- 
chant Princes.  The  spirit  of  Inquiry,  of  Invention,  conspicuously  busy: 
Gunpowder,  Printing,  Paper.  In  Literature,  the  Didactic,  especially  the 
.<£sopic  spirit  became  abundantly  manifest.  (389).  — Reynard  the  Fox,  the 
best  of  all  Apologues ;  for  some  centuries  a  universal  household  possession, 
and  secular  Bible:  Antiquarian  researches  into  its  origin  and  history:  Not 
the  work  of  any  single  author,  but  a  growth  and  contribution  of  many  gen- 
erations and  countries.  A  rude,  wild  Parody  of  Human  Life,  full  of  mean- 
ing and  high  moral  purpose:  Its  dramatic  consistency:  Occasional  coarse- 
ness, and  other  imperfections.  Philological  interest  of  the  old  Low-German 
original:  The  language  of  our  old  Saxon  Fatherland,  still  curiously  like 
our  own.  The  Age  of  Apologue,  like  that  of  Chivalry  and  Love-singing, 
now  gone.    Where  are  now  our  People's-Books  ?  (400). 


TAYLOR'S  HISTORIC  SURVEY  OF  GERMAN  POETRY. 
Upwards  of  half  a  century  since  German  Literature  began  to  make  its 
way  in  England.  Hannah  More's  trumpet-blast  against  these  modern 
'  Huns  and  Vandals.'  Our  knowledge  now  becoming  better,  if  only  be- 
cause more  general.  Claims  of  Mr.  Taylor's  Book  to  a  respectful  examina- 
tion: Its  value  and  shortcomings,  (p.  415).  —  What  would  be  implied  by  a 
Complete  History  of  German  Poetry:  The  History  of  a  nation's  Poetry  the 
essence  of  its  History,  political,  economic,  scientific,  religious.  Such  a 
History  of  the  Germans  would  not  be  wanting  in  peculiar  human  interest: 
Their  poetical  Infancy  and  Boyhood ;  Enthusiastic  Youth ;  Free  Manhood  ; 
Spiritual  Vastation,  and  New  Birth.  (423).  —  Mr.  Taylor's  'Historic  Sur-. 


190 


SUMMARY  UF  GONi'ENlS. 


-ey,'  a  mere  aggregate  of  fragmentary  Notices,  held  together  by  the  Book- 
binder's packthread:  Its  incredible  misstatements  of  facts,  and  general 
ncorrectness  and  insufficiency.  He  goes  through  Germany,  scenting  out 
infidelity  with  the  nose  of  an  ancient  Heresy-hunter;  though  for  opposite 
purposes.  Mr.  Taylor's  whole  Philosophy  sensual ;  he  recognises  nothing 
hat  cannot  be  weighed  and  measured,  eaten  and  digested:  Every  fibre  of 
lim  Philistine.  (429.)  —  The  best  Essay  in  the  book,  that  on  Klopstock: 
Beautiful  allegory  of  The  Two  Muses.  Foolish  admiration  for  Kotzebue  and 
lis  like.  His  scepticism  at  least  honest  and  worthy  of  respect.  Literature 
ast  becoming  all  in  all  to  us,  our  Church,  our  Senate,  our  whole  Social 
Constitution.  Its  tendency  to  a  general  European  Commonweal;  whereby 
he  wisest  in  all  nations  may  communicate  and  cooperate.  (445). 


Eichter's  Review  of  Madame  de  Stael's  '  Allemagne.' 

To  review  a  Revieweress  of  two  literary  Nations  no  easy  task.  Madamo 
le  Stael's  peculiar  advantages  and  fitness,  in  everything  but  a  comprehen- 
sion of  her  subject:  Her  French  intellect,  and  German  heart.  Parisian  re- 
finement: Classical  indifference  to  the  'household-stuff'  of  Religion,  and 
to  mere  Work-people.  How  she  bleaches  and  clear-starches  the  Rainbow ; 
md  even  makes  a  polished  gentleman  of  the  German  Hercules.  Germai 
Jingy  impracticability,  notwithstanding:  Mere  Nightingales,  comparec 
with  Peacocks.  Poor  naked,  unfallen  Eves  and  Graces;  How  shall  they 
be  presented  at  our  Parisian  Court!  (p.  455). —  Value,  and  deep  human 
interest  of  national  peculiarities.  We  cannot  wholly  see  ourselves,  except 
in  the  eye  of  a  foreign  seer.  Use  and  abuse  of  the  literary  file.  German 
political  subserviency;  and  French  Imperial  sycophancy.  German  con- 
versational maladroitness:  Awkward  tendency  to  try  and  say  something 
truly;  rather  than,  like  the  polished  Frenchman,  to  say  nothing  elegantly. 
German  wit,  and  French  witticisms.  Shallow  estimate  of  Goethe:  Better 
insight  into  Schiller:  Jean  Paul's  literary  delinquencies.  Intellectual 
ladies,  and  their  easy  solution  of  metaphysical  insolvabilities.  Madame  dl 
Stael's  high  and  earnest  character:  The  language  of  her  heart  always  a 
noble,  pure  and  rich  one.  (466). 


APPENDIX. 


J 


END  OP  VOL.  II. 


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